


The Hardest Walk

by nutella22



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Animals, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-11-17 14:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutella22/pseuds/nutella22
Summary: Paris had never been known as a city where milk and honey flowed but it had taken care of itself and its people. Once the streets had been the veins, pulsing with life. Never empty, never quiet, never safe but always home. Then, things had changed dramatically and it had all begun with a few dead goats.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> No animal was harmed in the writing of this story which is loosely based on one of my absolute favourite movies Le Pacte des Loupes (Brotherhood of the Wolf). It’s dark and bloody in places. The story is ¾ in the making so I hope not to abandon in half-way. Encourage me and it will get easier. For me, that is. Definitely not for you.
> 
> Story has not been beta’d so there’s only me to blame. Have fun. The following chapters will be noticably longer and will be posted soon-ish.

## Prolog

 

Darkness had seized Paris like a cold, hostile blanket that not even the meager number of torches could lift. The sporadic warm glow of light in a few windows didn’t provide feelings of safety but distance and isolation, only adding to the feeling of loneliness and abandonment to the two little figures, who were striding quickly over the cold ground. Their little feet making crunchy noises on the frosted puddles and their trembling lips blowing milky white clouds into the freezing air.

 

“ _Attends_ ,” cried the little girl, stumbling over the poorly wrapped pieces of cloth, which were supposed to keep her feet warm. “’m not so fast.” Her voice sounded nasal and she kept sniffing, wiping her runny nose on her filthy sleeve.

 

“Hurry!” snapped the boy, a little taller but still just a boy, not yet having lived through his tenth summer. “Why can’ tya walk fasta?”

 

“Yar legs are much longer th’n mine, Philippe,” the girl whined. “And ’m cold.”

 

“So am I, don’ be such a sissy!”

 

“Am not!”, she answered indignantly when she finally caught up with him and together they crept on, staying as close to the walls as the mountains of snow pushed aside by countless feet and carriages allowed.

 

Somewhere in the darkness, church bells were tolling the ninth hour and a cat was hissing viciously in a nearby alley. When the two children rounded the next corner, it had gotten quiet again and they found themselves in a small courtyard with a huge old tree hovering in the middle, its naked branches hanging low like knotty fingers reaching out to grab them. The place was surrounded by shabby looking houses, the outskirts of the even shabbier area known as the Court of Miracles.

 

“Almost ther’, Marie. See?” The boy tried to sound cheerful and took his little sister’s fingers to pull her along.

 

“Phillipe…,” the little girl whined and with an angry sigh the boy snapped at her.

 

“Stopit, Marie! We’e almost ther’.”

 

“Bu’…,” she began but the boy pulled on relentlessly, not looking left or right, just ahead. Only a few paces and they would have reached the entryway into the maze-like system of stairs and nukes and narrow alleyways leading into the heart of the Court, where there would be – if not a home – at least a crackling fire and kindred spirits sharing the misery that was their life.

 

The snapping of a twig stopped him in his tracks and his little sister bumped into his back with a yelp. He could hear her harsh breathing and felt her heart beating fast against his back.

 

“Phi…”

 

“Shht…,” he interrupted her and stood unmoving, letting his gaze wander over their surroundings. Nothing. No dog barking, no cat hissing. Not even the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks of dilapidation or making the withered leaves of the long lost autumn dance.

 

Nothing.

 

The world had turned into a hunter, waiting in spiteful apprehension for its prey to realize they were about to be hunted.

 

“Run!” he gasped and bolted, clinging to his sister’s hand and pulling her along. Only three steps he managed before her hand was ripped out of his grasp and he heard her scream. He whirled around but in the darkness merely saw her tiny shape being flung to the ground, feeble fingers trying to hold onto the rough grooves on the hard ground while something dragged her away into the dark. Something big, even in the dark. A huge lump of fur, claws, teeth and a deep rumbling growl that moved unnaturally fast.

 

“Marie!” he screamed and ran after her, watching in horror the way her seemingly weightless body bounced like a rag doll over the ground, gaining distance too fast for Philippe to catch up. He stumbled, fell hard and could only watch as she merged with the night, her screams swallowed, then gone.

 


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to keep up a more or less reliable posting schedule every Friday. Have fun. Find any mistakes? Please let me know. I aim to improve.

## Chapter One

 

Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,  
From this day to the ending of the world,  
But we in it shall be rememberèd;  
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

\---

William Shakespeare – Henry V

\---

 

 

Recent weeks had not been kind on Paris. Sure enough, it had never been known as a city where milk and honey flowed but it had taken care of itself and its people and flourished with the hubbub in the streets. Children playing hide and seek while mangy dogs were fighting ambitiously over left over bones, women tattling to their neighbors while their little ones were chewing on wooden pegs that kept falling down and men gloating loudly over whatever it was that their wives had strictly told them not to do in the first place. The streets had been the veins, pulsing with life. Never empty, never quiet, never safe but always home.

 

Then, things had changed dramatically and it had all begun with a few dead goats.

 

They had not just been found dead but ripped apart with body parts littered over an area measured in acres, not feet. The following night it was a whole stable of horses, the sight not any prettier. The night after it was the miller’s 16-year-old daughter who was found mauled and naked in a pond just behind her family’s home. Her eyes facing her death wide openand the horror she had felt in her last seconds burned into them like a painting on canvas.

 

That’s when the people started to talk about a monster that had been sent to punish them for their guilty pleasures. Self-appointed holy men bobbed up on every street corner, standing on wooden crates to preach fervently and pointing their fingers at every man and woman and child accusingly for falling for the devil. People on the streets blamed random strangers and trusted neighbors. They blamed the Spanish, the prostitutes, the protestants. Market days got sullen and even though patrols were doubled – the Red Guard’s as well as the Musketeer’s – the row of gruesome murders went on. Over a dozen dead within the last two months, mostly women and adolescents – some mutilated beyond recognition – and no witnesses to speak of. A witch-hunt began unlike anything Paris had ever seen.

 

Distraught animals – dogs, cats, a few famished wolves and even half a dozen large pigs – were being slaughtered. Devil’s pets, they called them.

 

Young men, their life still ahead of them. New in town because they had foolishly hoped to find work and a better life. Murderers, they called them.

 

Young women beaten to death because they were carrying herbs to the market. Witches, they called them.

 

Mothers, sisters, fathers and sons. There was no innocence left.

 

Then the first voices could be heard calling for the King to execute his God given power to stop this evil. Of course, the King didn’t exactly care about dead subjects. Nor did he care about such inconveniences as dead cattle.

 

“Double the patrols!” he had demanded casually, as if it was not the most evident thing to do and Treville had nodded dutifully only to quadruple the patrols instead.

 

But the streets were empty by now. And sure enough, it wasn’t just the cold weather that kept the people inside. It was fear. Taverns stayed closed and those that were still open were only sparsely frequented. As soon as the darkness crept over the rooftops though, the streets lay abandoned. People hid behind the privacy of their homes, fancying themselves to be out of harm’s way.

 

Right into the deceptive peace the King announced his yearly New Years Ball, which was supposed to be the day after the first Full Moon of the year. Nobles from all corners of France were expected and the King wanted “Everything perfect!”

 

That’s when some distant cousin of the king, Duke Francis from Nantes – traveling to Paris to attend to the ball - was attacked just outside the city walls. His horses were massacred, two of his servants killed, one missing. Parts of him at least. During the attack, the carriage had been knocked over and he and his wife had had the luck to be almost buried under it, sparing them the fate of their unlucky entourage.

 

“Preposterous!” the man did not tire to grouse after he had been saved by a patrol of Musketeers and escorted to the palace. “Preposterous, I dare say,” he all but yelled, his clothes still muddy and his wig aslant and in disarray as he came forward to be seen by the King, who had welcomed him in a hurry and was now brooding on his throne, obviously none too happy about the late disturbance.

 

“My wife is inconsolable,” the Duke whined and made an awkward effort to adjust his wig. “All the garment for the ball has been ruined. And… and the jewelry…” he added as if in afterthought.

 

Athos threw a glance at Porthos who was silently coughing into his glove, trying to cover up the sounds of disbelieve, and couldn’t help but share the feelings of irritation when outside these walls people were dying while the King’s precious peace could not be troubled by such mundane things as the death of commoners. They had seen what happened at the scene, had been the ones to find the ranting Duke and his hysterically sobbing wife. Had helped them out of their trap, which had saved their lives. They had ushered them away from the massacre, had cleared a path from body parts and corpses so the nobles didn’t have to look at it and their eyes would not to be stained by the ugliness of death.

 

When d’Artagnan had done his share of work none of his companions had commented on his disappearance even though they had heard him empty the content of his stomach behind a tree. They had only done what was expected of them and had safely accompanied the two guests to the palace.

 

“Cousin, dearest,” the king interrupted with an impatient grunt and got up, walking down the few steps towards the noble man. “Do not fear. Your loss will be taken into account. Now, shush, go to your wife and enjoy your stay. I will take care of everything.” Performing a wide motion with his arm he gestured towards the door and none too gently propelled his guest out of the hall. With a glance over his shoulder as if he had not yet said everything he wanted to the plump man waddled away, the doors closing behind him with a loud rattle.

 

“I told you to double the patrol,” the King hissed and stared at Treville.

 

“And we followed your orders, your majesty,” Treville replied patiently. “My men, as well as the Red Guard's, have been patrolling the streets without cease for weeks. But it is impossible to be everywhere at the same time. We...”

 

“No more words. No more excuses, Treville. I am disappointed.”

 

Athos, who was standing behind Treville, could see his Captain’s shoulder visibly deflate.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

From the corners of his eyes, Athos could see the shared looks between Porthos and Aramis while to his left, d'Artagnan tensed, probably very busy wrestling down his innate sense of justice.

 

“Now go and bring me that Beast. I...” The King stopped and pondered for a moment before raising his head a little higher. “I want its head on display on the night of the feast.”  With these melodramatic words he strode off, the Cardinal on his toes adding a smirk into the Captain's direction.  Treville sighed, staring long seconds at the now closed doors. 

 

“Captain,” Athos stepped ahead. “I suggest we go back. We might be able to find tracks as long as they're fresh.”

 

“No,” the Captain replied without making eye contact. “It’s the middle of the night. I will not risk losing men over hasty response. We are unaware of what we’re dealing with and I do not want you to go in a rush.” He turned towards the four men and one by one, took in their weariness and the way the last week’s constant vigilance had taken its toll. “No. Go and rest! You will ride out in the morning.”

 

Athos nodded and was about to turn when Treville spoke again, his words laden with underlying tension. “Be careful, Athos. That’s an order.”

 

Little did he know what good that would do.

 

\---

 

They rode out the next morning before the sun had begun to show. The air was crisp, biting their skin and turning their breaths into clouds of slowly recoiling mist. They rode in silence, meeting none other except for a small patrol of Musketeers just returning form their watch. Nodding, they rode past each other and without another incident left the city through the northern gate, which had only just opened.

 

The sun began to rise majestically behind a foggy sky and the land spread before them. The perpetual frost glinted sharply, covering everything in a blanket of glittering hostility. Still in silence, they pressed their horses into a light gallop until they could see in the distance the carriage lying on its side. Next to Athos, d’Artagnan suddenly fell behind and the older man, too, reduced his pace into a light step.

 

“Is something bothering you?” Athos asked and glanced sideways, grudgingly taking in the too light attire of the young man. He really needed to get that boy some adequate clothing, especially since he knew that his young protégé had no money to do it himself. While the gained pauldron had done him wonders in matters of self-confidence it didn’t come with a lot of financial benefits. What the young man saved by not having to pay rent to Bonacieux since he was now assigned a small room in the garrison he had to spend for equipment for himself as well as his horse. Athos knew he had invested in a pair of new boots – he fondly remembered d’Artagnan’s adamant pursuit to “ _please do not ruin it_ ” in the last month’s long-lasting rain shower – but padded mantles were expensive. The regular piece he was now wearing hardly did anything to ward off the chill. At least he had added a fur-lined vest to his uniform.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

The silence between them felt oppressive with unspoken words and finally d’Artagnan sighed. “I’m not looking forward to seeing this… place again.”

 

Athos nodded. “If you were, _I_ would be bothered.”

 

That was all the young man needed to hear. With a quick dip of his head and a short whistle, he spurred his horse into a light trot and quickly caught up with Porthos and Aramis.

 

“Did you find anything?” he called out and Athos nodded to himself, pleased with his protégé for gathering his wits in the face of what he knew they would find.

 

Next to the carriage, Porthos sat on his haunches, intently looking at something he had found on the ground.

 

“Oi,” he answered d’Artagnan. “’alf a footprint from an animal, if I ‘ad ta guess. A pretty big one.”

 

Aramis glanced over his friend into the woods and added with a frown: “And they lead into the woods.”

 

 _‘Of course they do,’_ Athos thought with a bad feeling in his heart and followed Aramis’ gaze. The forest on their left was thick and overgrown with shrubbery which even in the winter’sbareness would be cumbersome to cross. In terms of tracking that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing but they would have to do it without their horses.

 

“We will have to lead the horses,” d’Artagnan spoke aloud the train of throughts Athos had just been thinking. “I’m pretty sure somewhere in that forest there’s a pretty large ravine. This is where they… it… “ His gaze wandered over what could only be called a battlefield. “…whatever might have found shelter there.”

 

“Indeed, we almost got lost there a few years back,” Aramis added and Porthos objectied grumpily: “Did _not_ get lost. Merely… took a small detour.”

 

“Your definition of detour is remarkable, my friend,” Aramis laughed and bewildered, d’Artagnan looked between his two friends.

 

“I do remember that particular detour,” Athos added, the hint of smile on his lips. “The one thatalmost cost you your horse and you refused responsibility for the campfire for weeks.”

 

Porthos looked embarrassed which made Aramis snicker good-naturally while d’Artagnan gave the impression of bursting with curiosity yet being too well-mannered to ask. “Come one, young one,” Aramis grinnedmischiviously. “Let me tell you a tale about a young Musketeer who had grown up within Paris’ walls and thought he could conquer the elements the way he dealt with city nuisances. It’s hilarious!” Leading his horse with his left, Aramis put his right arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder and guided him away from the soul-crushing carnage and towards the forest border.

 

“This is going to be fun,” Porthos mumbled, looking like a man resigned to his fate but dutifully trotting after them. d’Artagnan’s amused exclamation of “No, really?” gave Athos comforting shivers of gratitude and with one last look at a blood-soaked limb which might or might not have been a lower leg Athos, too, followed.

 

It was good to know the others had his back when it came totheir young Gascon.

 

\---

 

Winter days were short. The few hours of sunlight even more restricted by a now closed cover of clouds, the sun since long having withdrawn. Hiding behind a blanket of branches and pinewoods the sky never really lightened up completely when the tracks ended and they found themselves at the beginning of the ravine. So far, the route had been without signs of disturbance except for a dead fox, its bloody bowels more on the outside than the inside but it had been cold and stiff. In silent agreement they had taken out their weapons, listening more closely now. Surprisingly, the forest was peaceful, mostly even void of life. Now a weathered trail to their left led down towards a narrow path, enclosed on both sides by high stone walls which could be mounted to their right by a steep slope consisting of large boulders and areas of undergrowth and moss.

 

“Now what?” asked Porthos, eyeing the path suspiciously.

 

With an upwards squint to the fading daylight, Athos lead his horse to a nearby tree. “We leave the horses and separate. d’Artagnan and I, we will try to get to the top. You two,” he looked at Porthos and Aramis and pointed downwards with a nod of his head. “Take a look this way. Do not go too far. We will meet in half an hour back here.”

 

“Do you think it’s wise to separate?” Aramis inquired, one eyebrow raised to the rim of his hat.

 

“No, I don’t,” Athos dead-panned and eyed d’Artagnan, who was blowing warm air into his hands. “But we are out of options. Daylight will be gone shortly. Until then we need to have something to report back to Treville.”

 

“When you put it that way...,” Aramis said and shrugged his shoulders, grinning at Athos and d’Artagnan. “Just don’t come running when the beast bites your heads off.”

 

“Thank you, Aramis,” d’Artagnan replied good-naturedly. “When it comes to that I’ll remember your kind words and run a little faster to lead it back to you.”

 

“That’s the spirit, my young friend,” Aramis grinned.

 

One by one, they tied their mounts next to Athos’ and after re-checking their weapons started to climb. Porthos and Aramis down the path, Athos and d’Artagnan up the slope. The latter provided enough cracks and roots to hold on to and quickly they reached a flat terrain allowing them to walk upright. d’Artagnan was the first to stand up and take a look around, his sword ready in his hand. Athos caught up with him a few seconds later and after they gathered their breaths prepared to advance. A small path lead alongside another rock face. Boulders of different sizes littered the ground and every once in a while they kicked a loose piece or two over the ledge, holding their breath out of fear of  causing an avalanche that might prove dire for their friends in the lower parts of the small canyon.

 

They had managed only a few yards when d’Artagnan carefully took a long glimpse over the brink, apparently lost in his thoughts. He then settled back close to the wall and concentrated on setting one foot next to the other.  “When I was nine or ten,” d’Artagnan suddenly began to talk. “I went hunting with my…” There was an almost imperceptible pause before he continued. “… father for the first time. He intended for me to take the shot that would provide us a proper goose for St. Crispins Day.” His voice sounded hushed but strong and Athos waited, realizing that it was probably the first time the young man spontaneously and without being prompted spoke freely about the past.

 

The path widened a bit and they could walk side by side, the feet silently treading on mostly grass and moss that was crunching under the soles of their shoes. A small, nostalgic smile spread on the Gascon’s face and Athos carefully pressed on. “Whathappened?”

 

“Ah,” d’Artagnan grinned and carefully looked around a corner, his weapon held in front of him, just in case. “He wanted us to lie in wait on a large boulder. I admit, I was a terrible climber and it took me forever to get up with a lot of coaxing and encouragement. But, somehow I managed and we waited all day long. It was freezing and every time I moved, pebbles came loose, rolled down and made a ruckus loud enough to frighten off anything in the perimeter. My father was about to lose it with me… “ At this point he snickered softly. “ … and surrender to have vegetable stew instead when this huge turkey showed up. I could see my father was about to make the shot himself but my nine year old self was eager to show him that I was capable of doing it myself. So… I pulled the trigger before he could … or I think I tried to. I don’t remember exactly how I managed to fall down the boulder. I only remember hitting the ground, still holding on to my weapon. Astonishingly, the animal was utterly stunned and didn’t even blink, didn’t even try to flee. What it did, though, was staring at me and… I took the shot anyway.”

 

“And?” Athos asked, casually.

 

“Let’s just say we ate turkey for quite some time. He was so proud… even though I had managed to break my arm in the fall. I always thought, he was proud of me that I didn’t miss the shot but…” There was another break, when d’Artagnan seemed to collect himself. “A few days later, he sat down with me and said he would have been proud either way.”

 

Listening intently, Athos let his eyes wander. They did have a good overview of the forest below them. The sky above them looked gray and massive clouds had begun to gather, menacing snow. If they didn’t find something soon, they’d have to return empty-handed before the weather or the approaching night would prove more fatal than some beast or a fall down the slope.

 

“He said, he was proud because I took the shot in spite of having fallen down. In spite of the pain I was in. And he said, it reminded him of my mother, who always wanted her way, no matter the circumstances.”

 

“Your father was…” Athos didn’t come any further. The only warning they had was a deep, rumbling growl that sounded almost melodic and ended with a strange, reverberating vibrancy, like an echo. Then something big appeared a few yards in front of them, almost as if it was coming out of the solid walls.

 

 _‘A cave…’_ Athos realized and stood still, hoping that d’Artagnan didn’t do anything rash to direct the thing’s attention at them. But it was already too late. It had probably heard them for some time.

 

The next seconds, in which Athos tried hard to take in everything he could see, felt like an eternity. The creature had the size of a small bear or a very large wolf. But it couldn’t have been a normal wolf as it also featured bulges of what seemed like bone plates and extra tusks on the side of his head. Dirty fur, bloody and clotted in places, completed the picture and huge talons, as long as the handle of Athos’ sword protruded from its immense paws. The creature’s beady eyes – wasn’t there a red tinge to it? – were glued on them and from its flew there was dripping a mixture of saliva, blood and the unidentifiable remains of what had once been an animal. At least Athos hoped, it had been an animal.

 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan mouthed almost inaudibly. But it still sounded too loud in Athos' ear. The young man was holding his loaded weapon at waist height, his finger itching on the trigger.

 

Athos nodded.

 

 _'Take the shot and make it count,'_ he thought as the beast advanced and d'Artagnan pulled the trigger.

 

_\---_

 

The sound of a gunshot broke into the tranquil silence. It reverberated from all sides, bouncing off the walls and Aramis could feel its force thrumming in the stones through his gloved fingers where he was leaning against the hard surface.

 

He and Porthos shared a moment of understanding before they turned on their heels, trying to run over the uneven ground, failing miserably in a few places where ice had spread, creating slippery sections that had them crawling and holding onto the walls. The sound was only slowly ebbing away when small pebbles and dirt started to rain down on them. A distant growling sound indicated another obstacle they had not expected and the small pebbles were quickly turning into larger ones, forcing them both to go for cover in an alcove that protected them at least partially from the dangerous shower. Chunks the size of large fists were hitting the ground in front of their feet and it looked almost comically the way Porthos was dancing around the most potent ones.

 

Knowing that the shot could only mean one thing they didn’t wait for the avalanche to completely come to a halt before they were already running on. They had strained to listen for something else but the avalanche had drowned out any other sound that might have come from an ongoing fight. With their minds going through all kinds of scenarios they reached their starting point where they had separated and followed the path their friends had taken.

 

Soon, they found themselves on a small clearing, almost like it had once been broadly carved into the rock face. There was enough room for half a dozen people to stand upright, protected from the weather and it ended in a hole in the rock that lead into a cave. A musky scent – earthy and moldy – washed over them, its origin somewhere deep within the drab tunnels.

 

A puddle of blood, still glistening and wet, was located near the brink of the platform. More trails of blood were scattered on the rocky ground near the entrance to the cave, some of them with distinct traces of imprints made by footwear. Then something that looked like a bloody handprint.

 

Something glinted near the cave and Porthos leaned down, rising with a familiar rapier in his hand, its usually glinting steel covered with more blood. d'Artagnan's.

 

They looked at each other, finding a strange comfort in the other men’s terror.

 

“What the ‘ell ‘appen’d ‘ere? Where ar’ they?” Porthos asked, words rushed and crisp, like the frozen puddles beneath their feet, and Aramis shook his head, not sure what to say. “We… we ‘ave to find ‘em.”

 

“Athos?” Aramis called, ignoring the feeling of dread, that whatever had caused his friends to disappear could reappear. “Athos! d’Artagnan!”

 

His own words were thrown back at him, manifested in a thousand voices that traveled along the canyonwalls.

 

“Aramis!” Porthos suddenly yelled with grave urgency and Aramis saw him bent over the brink, looking down at something. He stood next to him and following his gaze found a figure lying a few feet below them on a ledge barely wide enough for one body to fit. Pressed against the wall, like he had tried to put as much space between himself and the deadly drop. Lying in a puddle of blood – which Aramis couldn’t find the source from - the body was not moving and one arm was lying in an angle that could not possibly be natural.

 

“ATHOS!”


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who followed, favourited or commented. Every single reaction is highly approved and appreciated. As I already mentioned, this story is ¾ done writing and will be around 40.000 words. Give or take. I’m not a native English speaker so if anything sounds weirds or just plain wrong please let me know and I’ll fix it, especially since the story has not been beta’d. I want to learn as much as entertain.
> 
> Now back to that disastrous mission.

  
Certainties can make men blind and drive them mad. They can devour our hearts and transform them into beasts.  
\---  
Marquis d’Apcher  –  Brotherhood of the Wolf  
\---

 

There was this special place in Aramis’ mind that was always locked, stashed away under thick layers of instilled wine, lived-through sorrows and a familiar bond of friendship that was harder to crack than an oak door. After all these years, the memories had become hazy, but the underlying horror never lost its intensity. So now, in the fading daylight that turned the snow gray and the puddles of blood black, the panic threatened to come back with a vengeance. It was his pure denial of capitulation that kept him functioning, logically going through the options and calculating the risks.That, and his need to be strong for Porthos. If he lost himself now in the swirl of dark memories Porthos would be alone in this mess.  
  
So, he kept telling himself that this was not Savoy.  
  
After having wasted long minutes calling Athos' name and trying to wake him up, Aramis had sent Porthos on another tiring trek back to their mounts for a rope, allowing Aramis to climb down with not a little amount of bruising and cursing.  
  
When he had finally reached their team leader daylight had mostly faded, the canyon lying in deep shadows, the temperatures plummeting. Dismissing any chance of leaving this place for the night they knew they had to camp out next to the cave, hoping that Athos would be transportable in the morning.Or alive.  
  
Eventually, he had reached Athos and held his breath until his fingers found a pulse under the too cold skin of the older man and he let out a small sigh of relief.  
  
“Aramis, talk ta me,” Porthos had nervously inquired from above.  
  
“He’s alive. We have to get him up before I can examine him properly.”  
  
They had hoisted his unresisting body up over the ledge and had been rewarded with a few indignant groans, while the older man was being dragged up.  
  
Now, as the darkness had fully settled over them, they saw no other option but to light a fire and stay the night in a place that was as eerie as it was unprotected. The fire – offering a small relief from the cold and darkness – was dancing merrily, drawing erratic shadows of Porthos' sunken figure against the wall. They had put Athos right next to it, lettings its heat warm his too cold body and using its light for a more thorough examination.  
  
He could feel Porthos’ glance over his shoulder, while he checked for broken bones and bleeding wounds. The latter had him grit his teeth with worry, when he found the source of the blood on Athos’ left flank from three deep gashes, each at least ten inches long and still bleeding sluggishly when he pressed slightly against the surrounding flesh.  
  
“These require stitches,” he muttered meekly, already reaching for the wineskin and his supplies. From the corner of his eye he could see Porthos look between Athos, the dark entry to the cave and himself.  
  
He knew what his friend was thinking and didn’t like the direction the questions were leading.  
  
“What… what if d’Artagnan fell, too?” Porthos finally asked, his voice brittle and full of doubt. Like he regretted asking in the first place.  
  
“No,” Aramis answered, his voice far steadier than he had anticipated while he carefully set the needle. “No, we would have come across his...we… would have found him on our return path.”  
  
“Ya... probably!” Porthos answered, defeatedly. “We should... I should have a look at...”  
  
“No! That would be foolish and you know it,” Aramis harshly cut him off and looked up from his needle work to look at the big man, seeing his own fear and uncertainty reflected in his dark eyes. Sighing, he added: “There’s no way I can let you go in there alone.” He nodded into the direction of the cave. “It’s too dangerous. And I … I can’t do this alone.”  
  
It was not a lie. Not entirely. Closing his eyes against the staggering guilt that washed over him for possibly withholding badly needed help from d'Artagnan, he took a deep breath to make his hands stop shaking before once more sticking the needle into flesh. Athos' blood was obscenely smearing over his fingers, obstructing his view. He carefully wiped it away and continued his ministrations. The welcome feeling of familiar ground kept him focused and he felt his heartbeat slow down. This, he could do. He could stitch Athos up. And once he had finished, he would think about what to do next.  
  
After finishing his work he bandaged the wound with the help of Porthos, pressing the cloth firmly against Athos' side. When they put the older man carefully back on hisback he almost recoiled when he was met with an intense stare.  
  
“Athos? Are you with us, my friend?”  
  
There was a long stretch of silence and Aramis half-expected Athos to fall asleep again. But instead, the older Musketeer blinked a few times and managed another groan before he wet his lips.  
  
“d’Artagnan?”  
  
“He’s not here, “ Aramis answered slowly, sharing a quick glance with Porthos. “We had hoped you could tell us where he is. There was no sign of him when we found you. Do you remember what happened?”  
  
Another blink. And another one.  
  
“It was a… a wolf, I think,” Athos replied slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue before spilling them out. “Took us by surprise.”  
  
Suddenly restless, the older man tried to lift himself up, but fell back with a cry of pain.  
  
“Don’t move, Athos. You will reopen the stitches. Not to mention your dislocated shoulder, which needs to be set by the way, before the swelling becomes too much.”  
  
Athos gritted his teeth. “We have to… “  
  
“I know we do but there’s no way we will find him now, Athos. It’s too dark and we need to get through this night without freezing or being eaten,” Aramis reasoned and changed his position to have a better look at Athos’ right shoulder. “So, what exactly happened?” He asked and ignored Athos’ grunt of pain when he carefully placed his foot at the older man’s ribcage to gain a better leverage. “Yes, you may wait with your answer until I have finished this. Ready?”  
  
Athos nodded, then let out a short pain-filled gasp when the joint found back its bedding. It took a few moments for him to collect himself, before he let out a deep breath and wiped his left hand over his eyes  recalling the events that had so shockingly turned the tables on their mission.  
  
\---  
  
_Everything happened so fast that – for a few seconds – Athos lost conception of which side was up._  
  
_The shot had been a hit. Athos remembered the animal’s guttural howl of pain and the spray of blood from its flank. But the rest was no more than a quick succession of movements and sounds. The beast had bared its teeth and lunged. Athos felt himself propelled backwards and awkwardly landed on his backside. He could d’Artagnan’s sword being unsheathed, a metallic clink like it had met the stone wall and then another pained sound by the animal. It seemed to back off just a few inches, which gave d’Artagnan the chance to leave his trapped position between the beast and the wall. Without getting up, Athos pulled his own sword, driving its tip into the flesh of the animal’s soft stomach. It roared in agony, turned around and concentrated on Athos, who had to roll to the side to avoid having his throat ripped out. Which unfortunately got him into the most vulnerable position of lying on his stomach, unable to get up fast enough._  
  
_Behind him, he could hear d’Artagnan trying to distract the animal and he gathered himself up but the muscled body once more crashed against him, this time followed by a blinding pain in his side. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see the beast’s snout come dangerously close to his face – the stench almost overpowering - and with all his might he half jumped, half tumbled to the side, where he landed on his hands and knee, swaying dangerously close to the edge of the abyss._  
  
_Momentarily blinded by the sheer agony and unable to hold himself up he sank to the side, realizing this might have been his death sentence. The sloping ground beneath him shook and moved, small stones and sand and slippery ice set into motion, carrying him further away from the path._  
  
_He could hear d’Artagnan’s agonized scream and looked up, watching in utter helplessness as the beast lunged at d’Artagnan, crushing the younger man beneath its immense paws and lowering its head to make the final move._  
  
_His own fingers kept blindly searching for something to hold on but there was nothing._  
  
_Then he fell._  
  
\---  
  
A blaring silence settled over their little camp, Athos' remaining strength seemingly having fled and with a growing unease Aramis listened at his labored breaths. His words having felt like whispered drumbeats hurting their ears and shaking foundations that had no right to be compromised like that.  
  
The indications were dreadful. Unthinkable. It was worse, so much worse than what Aramis had feared and yet he was unable – or unwilling – to draw a final conclusion. Neither - he knew - were Athos or Porthos.  
  
“I am sure we must have injured it. It must be bleeding heavily,” Athos pondered aloud and Aramis was glad to have the other man's voice stop his downwards spiral of negative thoughts. “It might have...” Athos trailed of, his sight going distant and he swallowed hard.  
  
“We found blood. Lots of it,” Porthos confirmed. “But how do we know it’s not d’Artagnan’s.”  
  
“It would have left him behind,” Athos concluded and Aramis nodded as if all of this made sense. “No, d’Artagnan is alive.”  
  
“Then wher’ is ‘e? 'ow can he just be gone like tha'?” Porthos shifted restlessly, his gaze roaming towards the cave, stunned in the face of the terrifying truth that neither man believed d’Artagnan to be able to walk away on his own after what they had just heard.  
  
Athos slowly shook his head, eyes still closed and Aramis put his hand on the other man's leg squeezing it reassuringly. “You need to rest, Athos. You lost a lot of blood. We will have to think of something in the morning. Until then, Porthos and I will keep watch.”  
  
Athos' eyes were fluttering shut, his face grimacing with a mixture of pain and anguish while he was visibly fighting against his body’s demand for rest. Aramis watched a frown appear on Athos' forehead, a muscle above his his lips twitched nervously and then the older man's face went lax.  
  
Their situation was dire, their options strongly limited and Aramis knew, there was nothing they could do for d'Artagnan, not without proper reconnaissance and preferably reinforcement.  
  
He knew that.  
  
Why then did it feel like the ultimate betrayal?  
  
\---  
  
_This is a ridiculous way to die._  
  
This was one of his last conscious thoughts as d’Artagnan was pulled along the rough tunnel floor, his body being dragged behind the beast as it fled. He kicked, he scratched but to no avail, his battered body strangely numb even though he knew he should be feeling something. But the terror of the moment kept everything at bay. Fear. Anger. Pain.  
  
The beast was beyond his control as it stormed through the pitchblack tunnel while his boot was helplessly entangled in the animal's harness. The walls were speeding past him his fingers searched for something to hold one. His head connected violently with a jutting boulder. There would probably no waking up again.  
  
Funny enough, there was - even though he really, really wished he hadn’t.  
  
It wasn't the pain that had him slowly, sluggishly regain his senses. Neither the unfamiliar sounds – a deep grunting rumble that alternated with heavy whistling breaths and a steady  _drip-drip-drip_ somewhere close by, strangely soothing in its pulsing rhythm.  
  
No. It was the abominable stench. The stench of the day after market day increased a thousand fold. When yesterday’s goods – bloating fishes and moldy meat and oozing cabbages – were beginning to unite their symphony of decay.  
  
Concentrating with all his might on keeping his breaths as shallow as possible he counted to ten before he tried to open his eyes. At first, he was met with darkness, which slowly ebbed away and left behind a diffused lighting with a strange non-descript quality. Like the source was neither high nor low but from the air itself. He counted another one to ten and blinked, hoping to get his eyes to focus. When they did, he realized he was staring at the beast.  
  
It was almost curled around him, lying only inches away on its side. Its ribcage was moving in time with the heavy breathing and for a short, heart constricting moment d’Artagnan had the terrible fear of now being eaten alive. But his brain quickly caught up and he understood that he was looking at its dying shell, which was in no shape to harm him anymore.  
  
D’Artagnan was lying on his stomach, his left arm awkwardly located under his torso, while his right foot was still stuck in the animal's harness, the actual cause for his unfortunate situation, as he recalled.  
  
Limb by limb, he checked himself for further injuries by moving first his feet, then his arms. It all hurt. Some more, some less. But nothing that would indefinitely stop him from moving. He’d have to perform another check once he had his coordination and breathing back. For now, though, all he could do was dwell in his struggling mind.  
  
He remembered having fought, side by side with Athos who… Athos who… there was something nagging on his memories and when they came he was unable to stop his whole body from tensing.  
  
Athos, falling over the edge into nothingness. A pain that had nothing to with his physical well-being drove tears into his eyes and had his throat constrict with emotions. With all his willpower he pushed the  despair deep down into the back of his mind, forcing his concentration to stay in the here and now.  
  
Methodically, he took stock of his numerous pains – mostly in his thigh where the animal had sunk its teeth inside his flesh, right before d’Artagnan had managed one last act of defense as he thrust his sword into the soft flesh of its neck. It had roared with agony and d’Artagnan had felt its blood spray his face. Then, he lost the ground beneath him as the wolf turned and ran off, with d’Artagnan being dragged along. He had to let go of his sword, as he tried to hold onto the side of the wall with his hands but all it got him was more scratches and bumps.  
  
But now he was alive enough to feel the pain. Maybe not angry enough to appreciate it but he had to rejoice in the small stuff.  
  
_Okay, let’s give it a try._  
  
Slowly, he moved his right arm and rolled himself first on his side, then on his back, which was an arduous task since the straps on his boots where still stuck and the pain from various places all over his body was threatening to take away his senses once more. He took a few calming breaths and, when the world stopped turning, sat up.  
  
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned over his leg, willfully not looking at his mangled thigh and pulled and pushed until he could feel his boot come free. The precious boots that had cost him a small fortune and had now been responsible for his troubles. At least, they were warm. The injured leg skittered along the animal’s bodies and it weakly turned its ugly head in a last attempt to snap at him.  
  
The shock gave d’Artagnan enough motivation to make his body move and he crawled backwards until he hit another wall.  
  
He sat back, trying to take a few more calming breaths but darkness invaded his eyesight while the ringing in his ears reached its crescendo. Weakly, he leaned to his side and retched, tremors still shaking his body.  
  
When he woke again he was still half-leaning to the side. And he was cold. From the still fleeting warmth in his body he gathered that he could not have been unconscious for more than a few minutes.  
  
The animal’s breaths had turned into death rattles and d'Artagnan expected every rise of its furred chest to be the last.  
  
With a pang of bitterness he realized the dying animal had probably been his live saver as its body had provided enough warmth so d’Artagnan did not slowly freeze to death. Now, though, the wet and cold atmosphere was sucking life out of him much faster than his blood could drip on the stone floor.  
  
“Come on…” He mumbled to himself. “Get your ass up or you’ll stay here forever.”  
  
Unfastening his belt from around his waist, he crudely turned it into a tourniquet, wrapping it around his leg, just above the wound, unable to stifle the scream when he tightened it, both from the pain in his leg as well in his hand, where at least two fingers of his left hand felt broken. Two were missing their nails, which he had probably lost when he had tried to hold on to something. Deep scratches and oozing abrasions were marring both his hands and forearms. The rest of his injuries seemed not particularlylife-threatening. Even the wound on his head had stopped bleeding though the bump felt rather prominent under his probing fingers.  
  
When he came to the decision that he was well enough to not drop dead the second he reached a standing position, he heavily leaned against the wall, pushed himself up and hobbled over to the animal, whose struggle with death had finally come to an end. Deathly still it lay one its side and d’Artagnan dared to take a closer look, realizing for the first time that it might be a good idea to investigate, especially when in a moment of clarity he became aware of the fact that wolves usually did not wear harnesses.  
  
Harnesses were man-made. As were the plates of bones and wood on its chest and back, which, too, were tethered to the animals body like armor. The leather bindings were hidden under dirty rags to make it look bigger and wilder. Someone had taken it upon himself to go through the trouble of providing the animal with all this equipment. Even extra claws were tightly bound around its lower legs with leather bands. But who? Who would do all this and why?  
  
When he came to the hind legs, a piece of cloth caught his attention and with a violent yank he ripped it off. Under the hair and the dirt it once had been a fine piece of cloth, none that could be found in a commoners household. On its delicately sewn seam three blue lines were visible, webbed into the material with masterful fancywork. Whoever was responsible for the fitting of this beast, it was obviously someone with money, if not even influence and royal connections.  
  
An information that didn’t surprise d’Artagnan. The most respected men were usually the ones with the least respectable motives.  
  
But in the end the name didn’t matter. It was justice that had to be served, for the King and most definitely for Athos.  
  
So if the animal had ran off, it was probably into the direction of its master. d'Artagnan's destination would therefore lead him forwards, not back. Especially since the light he was registering came from somewhere ahead of him where an elongated bend was blocking his view.  
  
\---  
  
Morning brought an unexpected change of weather. The sky was clear and the sun stood already high over the treetops, sending unexpected warmth into their hiding place.  
  
“Aramis!” Porthos softly shook the medics shoulder.  
  
“Porthos? Is Athos alright?” Aramis mumbled and quickly sat up.  
  
“Athos is fine. The fever ‘as not risen.”  
  
Their leader had developed a fever in the early morning hours, which Aramis had tried to bring down with poultices filled with herbs to keep the infection from getting hold. His bloodied side had glowed with an angry red and his head had restlessly rolled from one side to the other while his lips were moving but no sound came out. There wasn’t much he could do besides keeping the wound clean but it seemed to have done the trick. Even though it still bleeding lightly, it wasn't oozing pus.  
  
“Sun’s up,” Porthos said and glumly looked at the sky.  
  
“Alright,” Aramis mumbled and wiped his hands over gritty eyes, trying to rub the sleep out.  
  
“Aramis…” Porthos began and alarmed, Aramis looked up at his friend’s serious tone.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I… took a quick look at the tunnels…”  
  
“You what? I told you to…”  
  
“What if d’Artagnan was just lying ther’, a few feet away from us in the dark and we didn’t find ‘im because we didn’t _look_.”  
  
The devastation and anger in his friend was painful to witness and Aramis didn’t think he could bear the answer. “What did you find?”  
  
Porthos sighed. “Nothing. The sun’s bright enough ta light about twenty yards into the tunnels, then it’s too dark ta see ya own ‘ands in front of ya eyes. But… I found traces. Blood, some hair, a fingernail…” He trailed off, not sure what he could add to make it sound less horrifying. “What if we’ve lost the whelp?” Porthos groaned and sat down, leaning his head in his trembling hands.  
  
“We will find him,” Aramis replied and was surprised his voice sounded convincing enough that even he almost believed it himself. Almost. “We just can’t leave Athos behind and at this point further separation is the last thing we need.”  
  
As if the older Musketeer had only waited for his name to be dropped he stirred and blinked his eyes open, groggily trying to shade his eyes from the unexpected brightness.  
  
“Athos,” Porthos quickly knelt down, providing a shadow that allowed Athos to look up. “’ow are you feelin’?”  
  
“Like I’ve violently been pushed into an abyss and resurrected by bad wine.”  
  
Aramis lips widened into a somber smile. “Your fever seems to have slightly dropped. Do you think you can sit?”  
  
Athos wordlessly lifted his uninjured arm and let himself be heaved into a sitting position near the burnt-out fire, while Porthos repeated his earlier account about what he found in the tunnel.  
  
“Now, what’s the plan?” he inquired after he had finished, his eyes shining with the need to do something.  
  
“There aren't many options.” Athos let his head sink weakly against the wall. “Our orders are to find the beast, and bring it to the king. We found it. We might have injured it gravely enough that it has retreated to die.” He paused. “If it isn't dead yet, it's probably dying right now. But we have to be sure.”  
  
“But d'Artagnan...”  
  
“d'Artagnan is a Musketeer!” Athos snapped sharply. Pressing his lips together, he looked at his friends. „He knew what he was getting into the moment he had the pauldron strapped to his shoulder. We can't... we can't let our concerns for him cloud our judgment.“  
  
„So, what are you trying ta tell us? That we're giving up on 'im?“  
  
Athos coldly stared back at him.  
  
„No, Porthos,“ Aramis concluded patiently. „What he's trying to tell us is that we will go in there, find that thing _and_ d'Artagnan.“  
  
„And leave you to fend for yourself!“ Porthos finished doubtfully, torn between the two evils.  
  
“What is it that you want to hear, Porthos?” Athos groaned. “You can't have it all. Besides, I am still quite capable of shooting a pistol.” He lifted his left arm in a _See?_ gesture. “Just make sure you come back,” Athos growled. _With d'Artagnan_   read the unspoken message.  
  
They prepared the camp for Athos, relit the fire and added enough wood in another pile to keep it burning for at least a few hours. Leaving behind Aramis' musket and all of their pistols they laid them out for Athos to be able to reach if there was need for them, including d'Artagnan's rapier. Within the tunnels, shooting was out of question, anyway. They would have to rely on Aramis' rapier and Porthos' schiavona. Two torches completed their equipment.  
  
With one last glance at their lieutenant, Porthos and Aramis disappeared into the tunnel.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest Reader. Early treat for you as I won’t have much time to spare over the next three days due to my daughter’s 8th birthday. Party and lots of kids and drama and all. Please, be gentle and leave a message, whether you liked it or not. It keeps my spirit up and my muse soaring. I’m already outlining the next story in my head which will probably base on another really great book written by Umberto Eco.  
> Furthermore, this story is neither beta’d nor is English my native language. I’m just writing what sounds right in my head. If something in here makes you cringe, please let me know and I will correct it.

I could die for you. But I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, live for you.

\---

Ayn Rand – The Fountainhead

\---

 

Athos sat waiting with three loaded pistols, a musket, a cheerfully dancing fire at his side and his thoughts as only company until the sun had accomplished more than half of its daily quest across the bright blue winter sky. The platform serving as his retreat was since long lying in shadow, even though dawn was still some time away.

There was something sinister about this place, Athos discovered after a few hours of quiet contemplation on his own. Aside from the rustling of the trees and the occasional call of a falcon, a steady stream of whispers was trickling out of the cave’s depths. Sometimes a whistling, then a groaning. Sounds were traveling far and long within those earthy catacombs but every time an exceptionally clear sound reached his ear, Athos was convinced Porthos and Aramis would follow soon, their boots scrunching on uneven ground and their hushed voices heralding either success or… something else.

His thoughts were jumping forwards and backwards, trying to process all possible outcomes, all probabilities, and even though he vehemently denied himself access to the darkest shallows of regret and grief, his mind kept drifting back to that dreadful fight, measuring it with what he had seen over the last few weeks. Corpses, mangled beyond recognition. The sight of the severed limb, lying at his feet next to the turned-over carriage. It was impossible - _unthinkable_ \- that d'Artagnan should end like that, somewhere in the dark depths of this underground mountain.

D'Artagnan – Athos knew for a fact – was a passionate Musketeer and a more than capable fighter, who had had his own share of close calls. But there was only so much luck one man can be entitled to. For d'Artagnan, it now seemed to have run out.

His imagination had never been a lively one, but the combination of pain, rising fever and the graveness of their situation was wreaking havoc with his mental stability. Part of him was perfectly clear in that aspect so when late in the afternoon the clattering of stones being kicked over the brink and unintelligible fragments of hushed conversation reached his ears, he did not hesitate to lift his hand, armed with one of Aramis’ pistols. He would not take any chances, be it hallucinations or beasts or otherwise. The voices came closer. Whoever… or whatever was nearing, it did not do it in stealth.

“-don’t like it, Capaut.” A strangely familiar voice reached his hear and his mind the puzzle came together. “What about their horses? It is no…”

“Shut up, Gaëtan,” another voice interrupted, not unfriendly but with a hint ofresignation.

The other voice grumbled something Athos didn’t understand but not before a relieved sigh eased his tension.

Musketeers to the rescue.

All strength fled his arm and the pistol fell clattering on the ground. A very unmanly scream followed, as well as the deafening sound of a gun going off, sending echoes of rippling explosions through the ravine. Birds were bursting out of treetops, adding to the noise.

“Idiot!” someone hissed, when the nose had abated and then the tip of a pistol appeared around the corner, quickly followed by an arm and a familiar face. Athos sagged back against the wall, his eyes clouding over when a wave of nausea hit him unprepared and all of a sudden he was painfully aware of the poor sight he was contributing. The wound in his sight had since long bled through the bandages and another bandage covered most of his right shoulder to keep the arm from moving.

“Athos, mon Dieu!” Someone knelt down next to him and he recognized Capaut, a stocky Musketeer with the heavy set body of a boxer. Small, gray eyes under a wide brim of a hat roamed over him and his surrounding equipment. “Athos, can you hear me?”

“Everyone can hear you, Capaut,” Athos coughed. “You are louder than a horde of tussling Red Guards.” Looking over the other man’s shoulder, he threw an angry glare at the other familiar man who went by the name of Gaëtan and stood out with a milky complexion and bright red hair that peaked out from under his hat. A gawky lad with the grace and concentration span of a 3-year-old, a family that had name and a whole page in the King’s good books and – most importantly – his heart in the right place. The man looked decently embarrassed and Athos rolled his eyes.

“You’re alive, then,” deadpanned Capaut and grinned, looking around the little camp. His face darkened. “Where are the others?”

Athos swallowed, his head turning towards the cave.

\---

Said others returned only a few minutes hour later. Their hurried steps echoing already minutes before they finally appeared.

“Athos! We thought we heard a shot….” Aramis began even before he left the tunnels. Then his eyes fell on Gaëtan, who was busy puffing on his hand after having burned himself in a clumsy attempt to keep the fire from dying out. Understanding dawned on Aramis’ face. “Oh…”

Only needing to take one look at his brothers, Athos knew they didn’t bring good news even though their hanging shoulders and tense body tones didn’t exactly scream bad news either. “You didn’t find him?”

It was Porthos who shook his head, while Aramis started rechecking Athos’ bandages, which had already been rewrapped by Capaut. Ignoring Aramis muttering about something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _butcher_ ’, Athos concentrated on Porthos' report.

“No, ‘tis useless. It’s a goddamned maz’ downther’,” the large man explained sourly, not looking up from his twitching hands. “We took three different tunnels until each, too, split and led ta mo’ tunnels. There’re mo’ branches down there than on the tree o’ life.”

“Nothing?” Athos inquired. “No signs?”

“None,” Porthos concluded. “No sign of d’Artagnan. And no sign of the beast either.”

A strange feeling of detachment washed over Athos, as he closed his eyes, picturing his young friend’s expression of nostalgia when he had reminisced about his father only 24 hours before. Now, bleeding, cold and without hope these 24 hours felt like a lifetime. D’Artagnan already felt as distant as Thomas and for a fleeting moment Athos heart threatened to burst with grief, before he could quell the unwanted emotions.

“We have our orders. We have to get back to Paris,” Athos decided and even he himself was surprised about the indifference in his voice. “I do not doubt the animal since long has succumbed to its injuries. We have to tell the King he has to forego the pretentious display of the wolf’s head and make sure the residents are being informed about its passing. The general order needs to be restored.”

Not daring to look at his two brothers, he kept his eyes on a distant point somewhere deep in the woods. There was a lot to say about the way they did not contradict.

A heavy silence settled over them while each man obsessively started to busy himself. Capaut and Gaëtan went to get more firewood and look after the horses after they had decided to spend another night before they would begin the long trek back to Paris in the morning. Heart heavy, Athos wasn’t sure how to live through another night out in the cold much less through the rest of his life.

But he had been there before. He would simply do it again. It was just a matter of breathing.

\---

There were no stories being told that night over the warming flames. Silently, cheese and bread had been divided and the guard duty had been assigned when the night had fallen, at which Athos had insisted on being put into equation. He couldn't sleep anyway so he could as well direct his attention to his surroundings. It would distract him from the way his heart was breaking in the inside.

Inscrutably, he let Aramis fuss over him and ignored the way Porthos kept staring into the cave. He snapped at Gaëtan when the young Musketeer accidentally stepped on d'Artagnan's rapier, which was still lying right next to Athos and actually declined the wine skin Capaut offered. He did not want alcohol to soften the edges of anger and frustration, which were keeping his body tense as a bowstring.

When they broke camp in the morning, the weather had turned, again. Even though the temperatures were still moderate, a soft drizzle had begun to fall and the dampness felt worse than the cold, the water crawling slowly but surely under their clothes and hats and into their boots. The ground turned slippery and muddy and once more, they had to lead their horses back to the road, which took most of the day.

The pain in Athos' shoulder had by now turned into a mere throbbing and almost insignificant compared to his side, which was burning fiercely as infection was raging through his veins. At first, he had insisted on walking until he had face-planted spectacularly into a dirty puddle and Aramis had yelled at him to ‘ _stop being such a muleheaded bastard’_.  Giving in, he had let himself being heaved on his horse, now led by Porthos, trying to hold on to the saddle.

Aramis, walking with his own mount right next to him as if expecting him to tumble down his horse any second, kept throwing glances at him, which he willfully ignored.

“You did the right thing, Athos.”

It took a moment for Athos to understand the words were directed at him and he stared at his friend and brother. Rivulets of rain were now cascading over the marksman's hat, spraying his shoulders and face. The wetness on the other man's cheeks – Athos conceded – might not have been entirely made of rain and he quickly looked away.

“No. I did not,” he replied. “What I did was legit, not right. As a friend, as a brother, I have failed.”

And now he could feel this most recent failure tear up his insides. Something lodged deeply within him. Something nameless, as physical as his own two arms and legs but also as fleeting as his spirit or soul or whatever it was that forges a person. Something above the need to have a name.

He remembered the days after Thomas' death; the devastation that felt more like emptiness than anything else. The way he went through the motions, without trying to lose the connection to reality. He clung to his intellect and put one rational decision after the other. Sense was normality after all. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. His wife for Thomas.

Now, what could possible be the rational consequence of d'Artagnan's death?

Death. It was the first time the actual thought flickered through his mind. The first time he consciously juggled with the possibility that somehow d'Artagnan was not coming back and strangely enough, it didn't impact him as much as he expected. The sky did not fall on him. There was no hole swallowing him up. His heart did not stop beating and life was still going on.

Realization struck that d'Artagnan might not come back and they might never know what happened.

There was no more talking after that and the rest of the journey turned hazy. At one point, he became aware of someone sitting behind him and a hand pressing forcefully against his injured side. Fragments of heated discussion were piercing through his foggy conception of reality and with a pang he realized that his condition was probably more dire than he had anticipated.

_Then be it so_ , he mused, not finding the energy nor the will to fight. He let himself sink against the broad chest in his back and knew no more.

\---

He would not do it!

These words were ringing in Aramis' head loud and clear. Again and again.

He would not lose two brothers. He just couldn't do it.

But fate was fickle and as the journey wore on and Athos' condition deteriorated drastically he had to admit that he had no say in that.

They had reached the city a few minutes before the gates closed for the night and the horses, half of them lame, kept slipping over the roughly paved roads of Paris. The moment they passed through the gate at the garrison the rain seemed to let up, as if it had just been for waiting for them to appreciate it the least. The clattering of the hooves echoed in the empty courtyard and the door to the Captain's office flung open.

“Report!”

Treville’s voice was unexpectedly loud after the sullenness of the day and trapped in their stupor, none of them felt addressed to answer.

“If I don't get an answer any second now help me God I will make sure none of you will ever report to me again,” the Captain barked in anger, walked down the stairs taking two steps at a time and navigated purposefully towards the horse carrying Porthos and Athos where Aramis was waiting to take over the unconscious man.

“We need to get him inside first.”

With the help of Treville, Aramis took over the lifeless body of Athos and carried him towards the houses. “Aramis, where is d'Artagnan?” Treville enquired calmly – almost warily – after he had taken in the bedraggled state of the other returnees. The question felt like a blow to his gut and Aramis stumbled.

“We ran into trouble,” he managed to grind out under Athos' dead weight and slung one arm over his shoulder, Treville doing the same on the other side. “There was an attack and we only … we found Athos injured...” Aramis trailed off, his concentration entirely on his feet, one step after the other. Behind him, he could hear Porthos’ heavy boots following them and with more force than necessary he kicked open the door to the infirmary.

“That does not explain d'Artagnan's whereabouts.” Treville steered them along the narrow way towards one of the bed, where they let Athos sink down in the clean sheets. There was still no answer and Treville looked back at Porthos, silently asking him to clarify. The large man merely shook his head in a subdued way that was so unlike him that Treville's expression hardened.

Aramis had started to busy himself by carefully exposing  the soggy bandages on Athos' injured side and carefully, one by one, peeled them aside to reveal the three deep gashes oozing yellowish pus again, causing Treville to let out a curse under his breath.

“I'll go send for a physician,” he said, sharply. “And once Athos is tended to, we _will_ talk.”

It wasn't a question but an order and Aramis suddenly felt overwhelmed. How was he supposed to explain with such profanities that spoken words had to offer what ill stroke of fate had befallen them in that godforsaken cave?

There was nothing to report. Just to confess.

\---

There was a whole new world spreading out in front of d’Artagnan combined with a another lifetime. Most of this new world consisted of darkness, thirst and pain. The latter having retreated in the back of his mind and by now more a nuisance than an actual obstacle.

Since long he had given up on finding an actual pattern in the route he was taking. Mostly, he just tried to avoid climbing and falling, both of which had already done more than once and it had never ended well.

Every other change of route turned into either a dead end or a path impossible to continue and he had lost count of the branches he followed. Pain and coldness had numbed his awareness and all he could do was put one foot in front of the other, his mind still awake enough to understand that if he surrendered to his fatigue, there would be no getting up. There where hours of darkness until he found himself almost blended with light coming from distant holes in the tunnel roofs while in other places the almost invisible glow of foreign looking moos covered the tunnel wall, radiating a strange beauty.

Every once in a while he found a source of water, small rivulets running over the slimy surface along the walls. It was enough to keep him on his legs but not enough to actually quell his biting thirst. A few times he rested, when he couldn't walk any further. He stumbled and picked himself up. He hit his head on dropping roofs and scratched his shoulders against narrow walls. He limped, he crawled and then he robbed until he felt himself floating, barely hanging on to consciousness. There was no telling whether he was dreaming or not, so when in the distance he heard distinct sounds of movement, his head shot up and his awareness came back with a vengeance.

Blinking his eyes repeatedly his sight adjusted and he realized he had sunken down in a sitting position, leaning against the rugged wall with both legs stretched out in front of him, while the injured limb felt surprisingly numb. For a bizarre moment, he feared he had somehow lost it on his hike through the tunnels and thought about going back to search for it. But when his fingers carefully probed the wounded area he had to bite his lips as not to scream out as a sharp pain shot through his leg to his hip and down to his calf. The sensation managed to clear the cobwebs in his head and for the first time in many hours he consciously took in his surroundings.

He was in a large, elongated cave, at least 30 yards to the other side, the ground sloping drastically enough that he was surprised not to have tumbled down to the lower area. It ended on both sides into another tunnel.

The light was almost bright and looking up he discovered a long and almost two feet wide crevice above him, splitting the dome-like roof in two. Beyond, there was a grey sky visible, clouds hanging deep and according to the amount of water cascading into the other side of the cave it was obviously raining hard.

But rain meant water and with the prospect of something to drink he once more heaved himself up and was about to stagger towards its source when on the other end of the cave something shot out of the arch.

d’Artagnan stopped in his tracks, not daring to breathe until three wolves – large and bulky and with similar attire as the dead one – had crossed the whole length of the cave and vanished in yet another tunnel, fortunately giving d’Artagnan a wide berth as he was standing on higher ground.

So it was more than one, he realized. He had to tell them. He had to tell someone about the other animals.

He had to tell Athos, except that Athos was probably dead and no truth could bring him back. A sob, unwanted but not unexpected wanted to explode somewhere in his chest and d’Artagnan doubled over, having to lean on his knees, his legs threatening to give in.

“Get a grip,” d’Artagnan scolded himself and for a second he could hear Athos’ voice ringing in his head: _Seeing means knowing. Believing means nothing._

Holding onto that treasured and respected voice, he pinched his eyes shut, took a few grounding breaths and straightened up. Shaking his head once more d’Artagnan listened closely for any indication that the animals were returning but the only thing he could hear now was the constant splatter of rain on stone.

As the slope was too steep to properly walk he slid down on his backside, clenching his teeth against the pain in his leg and when he reached the water he positioned himself directly under the constant drizzle. It felt wonderful, the way the drops ran over his heated body, and he tried his best to clean his wounds, his feverish mind conjuring up Aramis leaning against the wall, a worried frown on his face.

_You’re feverish, d’Artagnan. You have to drink but take it slow. One sip after the other. We do not want you to be sick, now do we?_

Awkwardly, he cupped his hands, ignoring the pain from his broken and bleeding fingers, and waited for the provisional bowl to be filled. He took slow, measured sips until he felt his stomach rebel with slight cramping. Unsteadily, he slouched over to where the tunnel began and the animals had come from. Armed with his bare, bleeding hands and one small dagger hidden in his treacherous boot he knew it would be foolish to follow the animals thus the wisest path would lead him away.

Dripping wet, yet with new-found determination he regained his equilibrium and looked into the tunnel, which looked definitely man-made. Roughly hewn sandstone led straight ahead and in the far distance, a bright orange hue indicated the existence of a fire, maybe even a torch.

So maybe he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He still had his duty to perform and answers to find.

\---

Nighttime had never felt so grave and Aramis was convinced that even the darkness beyond the small window leading into the courtyard was darker than usual.

A small candle had nervously flickered on the window ledge, stuttering and dancing fretfully. At one point, Aramis surmised, someone must have changed it in favor of a new one and the provided glow seemed now steadier.

In one of the other beds Porthos was snoring away, the sound calming in its familiarity and with a sigh, Aramis leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders to lose some of its tension caused by hours and hours of care for the feverish Athos. Luckily, his tiresome efforts started to pay out. Sometime in the early hours of the night, Athos’ restless fever state had reversed into a healing sleep, the fever breaking. His breath getting deeper and his movements less erratic. Now, as the terror of the night was slowly fading, the memories of their conversation with Treville started to surface and another kind of devastation set in, that he could not drench in cooling cloths and prayers.

Their report had been less than professional and Athos’ would have been appalled about their heated discussion. The other man probably would have done things differently. He would have stayed calm and sensible. Maybe he would have been able speak with reason, not anger and desperation.

Porthos had been insistent on sending another search party into the cave, a thought that had crossed Aramis’ mind more than once, even though common sense had told him that it would mean jeopardizing the life of more men when they were needed here in Paris, especially now as the winter ball would take place the following night.

“We cannot afford to send out men to search for d'Artagnan,” Treville had announced, ignoring Porthos’ outrage. “d'Artagnan was a Musketeer and he knew what he was getting into.” The words sounded oddly familiar and Aramis swallowed his reply, remembering Athos having stated them first.

“I am sorry, my friends. My hands are bound,” The captain had added and in his eyes stood nothing but grief and an unsaid apology that did nothing to make Porthos or Aramis feel any better. With these words Treville had left them to their own devices – his retreat rash and his voice unusually hoarse – and Aramis had found a way to at least distract himself from the feelings of despair by liaising with the physician. They had yet one life to save.

Hence, the night watch had begun.

Wiping Athos' face and body with cooling rags, changing the bloody bandages and praying only disrupted by one syllable conversations with Porthos and the doctor interrupted by  a few hours of much needed sleep.

Now, with Athos seemingly out of the woods, Aramis glanced up from his hand warm rosary to the window, where the sorry excuse of a candle was once more sizzling in a large puddle of wax. Beyond, the day had begun with the waking noises of the garrison bringing an atmosphere of comfort and safety. He could hear Serge rattling with pots and cans, stable boys pelting each other with straw which they were supposed to equip the horse stalls with, their laughter subdued by the general lethargy of early mornings.

Life went on and, in the end, the death of another good man would be just a notch in the survivors line of memories. A wound that no one would see and that was harder to heal than something that could bleed. Aramis did have his own fair share of losses, more than he was willing to retell but d’Artagnan… no. He wasn’t yet ready to consider him lost or even dead although all signs were bad.

Sunrise was still some time away and Aramis got up to replace the candle once more, finding himself face to face with his mirror image in the window glass. The blurry image provided exactly what he had expected. Sunken eyes, lined with worry and a paleness that stood in stark contrast with his facial hair.

Beyond his own face, he saw the contours of the garrison courtyard partially bathed in orange puddlesof torch light, the table where the four of them used to share meals, laughter and easy camaraderie. An airy blanket of clouds hung above them, bearing an almost ethereal blueish transparency illuminated by the low full moon behind. Somewhere out there, he could only hope, was a young Gascon relying onto their help and they were here, savoring a warm hearth and a roof above their heads. His stomach cramped and he once more realized that sometimes being the self-assigned medic of their little band of brothers was a burden more than a blessing, no matter how often his skills had been able to save a life. This was one of these moments in which Aramis cursed his knowledge.

Athos’ report about the attack had been hard to listen to and Aramis had bitten his tongue when Athos had told them about his observation of d'Artagnan being bitten, not wanting to alert his friends to its significance. As the years went by, he had seen too many wounds, obtained in either battle or accident. He had learned to assess the grade of injuries as well as its chances of survivals. He also had come face to face with quite a few victims of animal bites, ranging from the bite of a racoon to the gruesome wounds of fully-fledged bears. All of these had one thing in common: the mostly likely chance of infection. Sure, infection was always a possibility but by Aramis' experience, animal bites always resulted in persistent infections, killing their victims slowly but adamantly. Fangs were distinctly less clean than the sharp blade of a sword, dagger or musket ball.

Therefore, even if d'Artagnan had survived the attack – which no more than wishful thinking anyway – without medical aid he had surely succumbed to infection.

The thought had Aramis groan in silent despair and he wiped his hands over his gritty eyes, about to turn away from the window, when he saw a rider dashing through the garrison portal and jumping of the horse before it had completely halted. The hectic sounds hadn't escaped Treville, who stepped outside from his office, awake and battle-ready, as if he had expected an early visitor at six in the morning.

“Captain Treville?” The young man’s voice reverberated in the courtyard, muffled behind the glass.He met Treville halfway on the stairs. There was no way to understand what they were saying but Aramis could see was the way Treville's head shot up, looking into the direction of the infirmary.

“What's goin' on?” Porthos asked behind him, his voice scratchy from too little sleep, and Aramis startled.

“I don't know,” he answered.“But I guess we will find out soon enough,” as he watched Treville quickly approach.

Seconds later, Treville stepped inside, his features dark. “Another body has been found.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude. Seriously. I have no idea whatsoever why they always happen. It's like the bread and the butterside and all that. *goes into hiding*


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again an early treat. Somehow the weekends are always packed. After managing daughter’s birthday last weekend ( she had a blast, by the way, too many presents, and only half a dozen temper tantrums), this one is stuffed with flute auditions, family gatherings and dance performances. Not to mention the laundry. Enter dramatic sigh.
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for the lovely reviews and encouragement. The story is almost done and I’m just starting to write the last chapter. Keep up your kind words and let me know if the story gets… I don’t know… boring. I seriously have problem staying impartial as I’ve read and re-read way too often. All mistakes are mine, whereas the characters are not. Pity. Oh, and this time no cliffie. Well, at least not a bad one. I promise!

Certainties can make men blind and drive them mad. They can devour our hearts and transform them into beasts.

\---

Marquis d’Apcher  –  Brotherhood of the Wolf

\---

 

“Where the hell is his face?”

Porthos had to admit that was a good question. Even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He flashed a part annoyed, part understanding glance at his companion whose complexion had taken on a slightly green color and leaned down to take a closer look at the gruesome discovery. Behind him, he heard Gaëtan take a few quick steps before christening the house wall with his stomach content.

This time, Porthos’ groan had nothing to do with the sight in front of him and he let his face hang low with his eyes closed, trying to chase off the constant exhaustion that had settled in his bones from too many days with too many sorrows and too little sleep.

When Treville had delivered the message of another body, he and Aramis had looked at each other, unable to vocalize their fears yet clearly seeing them mirrored in each other’s face.

_It could by anyone. - It could be him._

Without uttering a sound Porthos had put on his cloak and rode off, baggaged by order of Treville with the company of Gaëtan, whose presence had done nothing to keep Porthos' terror at bay.

“Are ya done?”

“Sorry,” Gaëtan returned, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his arms before letting his eyes roam over the body.

It was a male. Young and lean. And if it weren't for the fact that what was left of his hair was a dirty blond and nowhere close to the dark strands of d'Artagnan, Porthos probably would have lost it right there and now. But it wasn't d'Artagnan. It was NOTd'Artagnan!

“It's not...”  Gaëtan began hesitantly and Porthos interrupted him, roughly.

“No, ‘course not! Now make ya'self useful and hav' a look a'ound.”

Gaëtan trudged off and Porthos concentrated back on the corpse. The man was lying on his stomach in the mud, his injuries thereby mostly hidden from sight, except for his face and his throat, which were pretty much nonexistent, facial features impossible to recognize. But the rest of the body as well as the area he was found in had enough stories to tell. The blood had not dried yet, so he couldn't have been dead for long, putting the attack into the early morning hours. Assuming Athos had been right and the beast he and d'Artagnan had encountered was dead or at least badly woundedit was unlikely the same animal had done this. Which only could mean one thing: There was more than one.

The realization had him swallow a surge of discouragement and he tried to re-gather his calm with a few deep breaths.

The general shape of the man was undernourished and dirty. He stank of prolonged time without use of water and soap and his many-layered clothes were sewn together in more places than Porthos could count.

He looked up, let his eyes wander over the surrounding houses and rested at a street corner, that he knew only too well. The curious faces of two little kids were peeking at him from behind the house wall, their eyes huge in their round faces. When they realized they had been spotted, they ran off.

Behind them, a familiar figure was visible for a heartbeat before it, too, retreated into the narrow pathway and Porthos stood up from his crouched position, frowning deeply.

“Gaëtan,” Porthos called out to the other Musketeer, who had naively started knocking on doors, wondering why they kept being slammed into his face. “I know where this man came from.”

“You do?” Gaëtan asked hopefully, rubbing his nose.

“Oi! Ya wait he'e!” Without making sure the other Musketeerobeyes, he followed the kids and the figure along the well known streets and tunnels, leading right into the Court that he had once known better than the back of his hands. The nooks and passages, connecting the whole area like the web of a spider.

The two kids were long gone and it was just the slim figure of the woman that he was following now. Sheturned a corner afterprompting himwith an inviting glance to follow.

“I knew you would show up befo' long,” Flea smiled, as he caught up with her. Leaning against a wooden beam, she looked at him with a coquettish smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Ya know I can’t resist ya,” Porthos said, cupping her cheek against his palm. But as their eyes met, she frowned and with a tilt of her head asked: “What’s wrong?”

Porthos took a step back, detaching himself from her small fingers that were gently carressing the buttons of his doublet. “The man, he was one of the court, wasn’t he?” he asked and after a small, pregnant pause she answered, her voice adopting a steely undertone.

“His name was Mallonier, Marcel Mallonier. He was not the first and he won’ be the last.This Beast makes no distinction between youn’ an’ old, rich an’ poor. And that is the only good thing one might have ta say about it.”

She sounded bitter and Porthos head swiveled upwards, meeting her gaze, realizing not for the first time how much of her heart was beating not just for herself but those that gathered around her. After all, the Court wasn’t just a conglomeration of beggars and scoundrels. It was a home for those who had nowhere else to go. A makeshift kingdom born out of necessity to pick up those who would otherwise be lost.And she was the one holding it all together. She felt each loss like a stab in her heart. Beggars or not, these were human beings too and once – a lifetime ago – Porthos had been one of them.

“This is not the first dead from the court?” he asked, frowning, and she shook her head slowly.

“No, it’s not.” It was a mere statement but her features closed off and Porthos knew she had more to tell.

“What do you know about the attacks?”

“As I said, he wasn't the first. We've lost at least half a dozen over the last months. Until...” She walked a few feet away from him to lean against the wall, stared at her hands andnervously began fiddling with her sleeve.

“Until what?”

“A few days ago, a young girl was taken an’ her brother witnessed it all.”

Porthos frowned, rubbing his chin. “Why didn’t you report it?”

She laughed, a touch of bitterness ringing into it. “Ya're the one that told me this place was doomed. And ya think anyone cares about one more missing mongrel from the Court?”

“I do,” he replied, softly, meaning it. “Ya said her brother witnessed it? That’d be the second time we have a witness to tell the story.”

“The second time?”

Porthos nodded, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Oi, Athos did survive, too. Bar’ly.”

“Athos? Is he one of ya friends?”

“He is,” Porthos said and he felt his throat constrict painfully. “And ‘e’s the fortunate one…”

She didn’t dig deeper and Porthos was grateful for that. He wasn’t quite ready to discuss d’Artagnan’s demise just yet. Or ever. The young lad did have a way of defeating fortune in its own game and this would just turn into another episode of his personal wheel of fortune.Moreover, Porthos intended to proof it. He just needed somewhere to begin.

He cleared his throat, his figure straightening. “Where?”

“I’ll show ya.”

She led him back to the corpse and willfully walked past it, her upright posture never wavering. It was one of the things Porthos admired about her. Her compassion was strong, her dignity sacrosanct. Her looks might be wild, but she was a queen in the inside. She'd probably get along well with the actual Queen.

With a quick gesture, Porthos summoned Gaëtan to follow them and they took some corners, minding the worst puddles and a few minutes later found themselves in a dirty backyard, surrounded from all sides by high house walls, all windows boarded shut with either wooden planks or covered with stained linen and sheets.

In the middle - huge and impressive - stood a massive tree, unlike any other tree one would expect to find with Paris. It didn't bear a single tree trunk but dozens, all of them oddly branching out like corkscrews, entwined with each other. What it lacked in height, it compensated with excessive width and it was completely naked, though Porthos couldn't remember the tree ever having carried leaves. No, it had probably been dead from the beginning.

It was a desolate place and instantly Porthos felt himself shudder.

“Philippe, the brother, said they were crossing this place when they were attacked.” She pointedtowards the back of the area. “t'was dark so he couldn't see much, except it was big, with fur. And it dragged her towards the tree.”

“The old whipping boy,” Porthos mumbled under his breath.

“Ya remember?” Flea asked, her smile a sad one.

Porthos nodded. “Course I do. Not exactly one of ma best memories.”

“What is... what are you talking about?”  Gaëtan stuttered, stepping beside him to take in the whole area, then cursing softly when he stepped into a hole and his boot sank up the rim into mush.

“That's the place where we used to play when we were kids. Until one o' us got entombed in a sinkhole.” He frowned. “We called the tree whipping boy ‘cause the older boys used to beat us with its branches.”

While speaking, he had slowly crossed the distance towards the center, where the tree had dug its roots deep into the earth, and leaned down towards something on the ground.

“This is 'ow they move,” Porthos stated and Gaëtan stood next to him, both men looking down into the dark hole leading downwards and wide enough for even a large man to crawl in comfortably.

“But... you don't expect anyone to get in there, do you?”

Porthos stared into the black void, his resolve intensifying with the feel of dread that seemed to emanate from the tunnel. He had been looking for something - _somewhere_ \- to start and he had found it.

“Not anyone, no.”

 

\---

 

The flickering had been a torch, its flames stuttering and hissing like angry snakes. A fact that in the first moment had d’Artagnan feel relieved more than anything as the aimless meandering through the caves and tunnels had dulled his senses. He would’ve been happy to see a person. Just another human being, which would confirm his assumption that no, he was not the only human being left on earth. Though that might have been the fever talking.

He took the torch, held it high in front of him even though its brightness hurt his eyes and the smoke made him cough.

What wouldn’t he have given for a friendly clap on his back by Porthos, a mischievous smile thrown his way by Aramis or just a look from Athos, saying more than any number of words could.

But the longer he walked, the clearer his head put together the pieces and he came to the conclusion, that wherever this path was leading him, it would be the beginning of all of this disaster.

He followed the tunnel for what felt like another eternity and the longer it got, the more he felt in the open. There were no junctions, no doors, no alcoves to hide in if anyone – or anything – decided to take a stroll in here.  No way to evade. And with the torch in his hand he was posing an easy target. All facts considered he was once more doing something immensely stupid.

_“Head over heart, d'Artagnan.”_

He really tried. But somehow, head and heart had joined forces and were plotting against him, letting curiosity and Gasconstubborness take over, even though he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. He was long running a too high fever, sucking his strength as well as his sense. He was shaking with cold and exhaustion and somewhere in the back of his mind could hear Aramis lecturing him about animal bites which bore a much higher risk of infection than ordinary wounds.

_“An' of course the whelp runs off to proof the theory...”_ He could almost hear Porthos scold amiably.

“Not a whelp...” He slurred, feeling an absurd need to laugh bubble somewhere in his belly and bit in his hand to stop it from bursting out of him. Once more, he really had managed to get himself into a disastrous situation and even though prospects were dire he couldn’t stop snooping around.Wouldn’t want to either. Curious in spite of the dead cat.

His vision was beginning to fade in and out. The brightness of the flames had him squint his eyes as they burned, tearing up. Therefore, it took him a while before he recognized the ending of the tunnel was marked by an open door.

For a moment, he leaned against the wall and steadied his breath, listening intently for anything that might warn him of impending danger. When there was nothing but the sizzling sensation of scorching oil from his torch, he turned the corner and found himself in a large vault, its round ceiling high over his head. It was brightly illuminated by almost half a dozen torches, positioned every few paces though a few of them were not lit.

Wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant smell,he slowly came to the realization that he had found the nest of the wolves. Under the sharp smell of excrements and rotting meat, he also distinguished the sour smell of alcohol. The sandy floor was covered with blankets and stapled against the walls stood cracked barrels and broken equipment, useless and forgotten. Clearly some kind of basement. The house above him must have been above average as not many were houses had such large underground premises. From the sight of his surroundings, his first guess would have been some kind of tavern.

Remains of things d'Artagnan didn't want to think about too clearly were scattered in between and he gagged, putting the torch aside hoping to not light the whole room up by accident.

A few stairs led to another door at the side of the room. He limped towards it, groaning with exertion when he climbed upwards only to find the door locked, probably from the other side. So, this was the end of his journey? A nest for wolves that would turn into a trap from him sooner or later? Because, he honestly was not sure he was capable of walking all the way back from where he had come from.

Turning around, he heavily leaned against the door and slid down, falling on his butt and ignoring the screaming complaints of his leg and his throbbing thigh.

Daring a short glance at the ugly wound – angry red and already turning dark in places - he swallowed back the frustration and let the back of his head bump against the wooden surface. His eyes were closing on their own and before he had the chance to succumb to the approaching darkness, he heard steps from inside the vault, soft and testing, and then – to his utter surprise – a tiny, childish voice full of fright and wonder: “Are you an angel?”

 

\---

 

“Under no circumstances!”

“Aramis...”

“No!”

Admittedly, Porthos hadn't expected anything else when he had returned to the garrison to give a report. He had found Aramis in the infirmary, meticulously rechecking Athos bandages. With some relief, Porthos had taken in in Athos' improved complexion. The reddish hue of his skin had shied to a soft glow and his breathing seemed easier and deeper. After inquiring about his state Aramis had managed a shaky smile. “He'll live. Though knowing him, I'm not sure he'll be happy about it.”

“Don't talk like that Aramis,” Porthos had scolded, knowing that his best friend was exhausted, with both worry and the effort of tending to their badly wounded comrade. Where Aramis' spirit was low, Porthos' seemed to be surging with a confidence that had his heart light and his mind clear. He could carry hope for all of them. “We will find him.”

“How?” The marksman had let himself sink on a chair, rubbing his eyes before letting his head hang between his knees. “It's a maze down there and time isn't exactly on our side, as you know. It's been what... three days? Even if d'Artagnan had not been gravely injured, don't you think he would found his way back by now? And if you're right and there's more than one beast...” He trailed off, his overtaxed brain refusing to keep his runaway thoughts from bolting in unwanted territory.

“That's why we have to act!” Porthos had voiced, heatedly. Almost exuberantly. “And I've found a way in.”

“Under no circumstances!” Aramis said, looking up at his friend.

“Aramis...”

“No!”

That was when Athos' voice, hoarse and rusty, like it hadn't been used for weeks, broke into their argument. “He's right!”

“Who? Me?” Porthos and Aramis spoke simultaneously, before realizing who had interrupted.

“Athos,” Aramis jumped up, quickly hurrying over to the injured and feeling his temperature with his hand, which was pushed away in annoyance. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive. Now help me up!”

“No!” Again, both men present replied unisono and Athos finally blinked his eyes open.

“Is my hearing impaired or are you two doing this one purpose.”

Porthos chuckled, Aramis huffed angrily and Athos groaned.

“Fine! Don't!” With much awkwardness, he rolled on his good side to heave himself up, before Aramis grudgingly helped him getting into a more comfortable position leaning against the wall.

“You shouldn't move, you stubborn fool.”

“And you should stop bickering like an old quarrelsome couple. Thus neither will do as he's told.”

“So, who was right? And with what?” Porthos asked, picking up where they had left off.

“As much as I want us to find d'Artagnan, it's too dangerous to go down there alone.”

Aramis threw Porthos a look that probably should have meant _I knew it_ , but it turned into a grimace.

“Ya can't be serious!” Porthos erupted angrily. “What is wrong with you two?” Aramis actually flinched at that and took a step back.

“Why is it that everyone keeps misinterpreting me these days?” Athos mumbled more to himself, before repeating himself. “You're not to go _alone._ ”  With that, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and held on to the wall for balance.

“Athos, you can forget about that. You can't...” Aramis began but stopped and spun around when the door opened to reveal Treville walking into the room.

“Gentlemen, at ease,” the Captain greeted them, his gaze lasting on Athos a tad longer. “It's good to see you awake, Athos.”

“Can't say being awake is much of a betterment,” Athos rumbled and successfully stumbled to a nearby chair. “But I'll live, as Aramis so eloquently stated.”

“How long have you been awake, exactly?” Aramis asked, feeling slightly miffed as he helped lowering his older companion into a chair.

“Long enough to have heard everything of importance.”

“Before any of you start spinning the wildest tales of rescue missions,” Treville spoke, clearly irritated about the way his presence was mostly ignored. “In less than seven hours His Majesty's winter ball will take place and I need every able man at the palace.

“Captain...”

“I don't expect having to repeat myself, Aramis,” Treville interrupted brusquely. “I expect you at sharp eight to report in at the palace. You two...” Pointed looks at Aramis and Porthos. “...are disposed to guard duty within the ball room, whereas you…,” he nodded towards Athos, who looked as stoically as ever. “...I expect you to stay where you are...” Porthos was about to open his mouth for another attempt of expressing his displeasure but Treville merely made an angry gesture, stopping him effectively. “... no matter what these two...” He looked back at Aramis and Porthos, speaking slowly and measured. “... are up to in their leisure time, understood? It's bad enough _they_ do not know where loyalty ends and disobedience begins.”

The room was silent as the three Musketeers stoicallyaccepted their dressing down, letting the Captain's word sink in.

“If you would please excuse me now, Gentlemen,” Treville explained tightly, as if he felt sick by his own words. “I have a very important ball to attend.”

Left on their own device, the three friends looked at each other in surprise and it was Aramis who spoke first. “Did we just get a complimentary ticket to disobey?”

Porthos chuckled. “Leave it to the Captain to make sure we know to whom this is falling back in case of failure.”

“On none but us,” Athos stated bluntly.

“You mean on Porthos and me,” Aramis corrected, giving Athos a glare. “You're not to come with us, Athos. You can barely stand without falling over. Last night we weren't even sure you'd wake up at all.”

“I did. Thus I am able to make decisions on my own. And you two are not leaving without me.”

For a moment, the two standing Musketeers looked at each other until Aramis sighed dramatically and Porthos grumbled: “This is a terrible idea.”

 

 ---

 

For a terrifying moment, d'Artagnan was convinced he was losing his mind. Or hallucinating.Though he wasn't quite sure why his fever-racked brain would send him a little girl. A dirty one at that.

She couldn't be much older than five or six years. It was hard to tell under the tangled mop of hair that was either brown or just really filthy. Streaks of dirt painted her face and the pure white of her eyes stood out, as if it was glowing, as she stared at him like _he_ was the apparition and not vice versa.

“Wha...” d'Artagnan was too dumb-founded to allow himself the luxury of surrendering to his physical needs oblivion was scratching on his thin walls of awareness.

“Are ya an angel?” the little girl repeated, her eyes still widening as she stared at him, unblinking.

“No,” d'Artagnan finally managed to answer. “Are you?”

“No, I'm Marie. Just Marie.” The little girl looked confused. “What are ya doing here?”

“That is... a very good question, isn't it?” He replied and for a moment, they just stared at each other until d’Artagnan self-consciously cleared his throat and shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs that had gathered. “Just Marie... that's a prettyname.”

“Not _Just Marie_. Tha’s not a name. Marie, my name is Marie,” she corrected him in such a spirited manner that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from smiling. “Wha’s yours?”

“d’Artagnan,” he answered and now, the soft smile escaped his, bringing with it the need to protect that little child. There was no one else to do it.

For a moment, the girl frowned at that, as if tasting the name in her head. “d’Artagnan…” she repeated, then nodded approvingly. “I like tha’ name, too.”

“Fine then, _Marie_ ,” he spoke, emphasizing her name in particular. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing here? Such a fine lady as you surely has other places to be.”

“I asked first,” she retorted briskly, but d’Artagnan could see the good temper shining in her eyes.

“I…got lost.”

“Me too,” she answered and leaned closer, her eyes huge and fearful. “The big dogs took me but they forgot about me.”

“They did?”

“Yes. One bit me an’ brought me here.” Hastily she sat up and stretched her leg in front of her to show him a small brown patch of dried blood on her tattered breeches. “Look!” She declared excitedly, the smile in her face belying her vocal indignation.  “It brought me here. I was soo afraid.” He could see her shivering but refrained from trying to comfort her, unsure whether she would appreciate a stranger trying to touch her, even if it was to alleviate her distress. “There was other animals. More wolves and they growled and started fighting over me. But then I scrambled away really quickly.” She was proud of her quick wits and obviously expected d’Artagnan to acknowledge it.

Blinking a few times to clear his view, d’Artagnan followed her gaze to her foot, where the sorry remains of undergarments covered her legs and a wound just above her ankles. The blood had dried and from what he could see the wound did not seem infected. She was a lucky girl, he mused.

“He bite you too?” She asked, eyeing his leg. His wound too mostly hidden under dangling shreds of fabric but dark the patch of dried blood was noticeably larger than hers.

“Looks like it, huh?” He said. “So, the wolves, will they be back? What do you think?”

“They always come back. The man comes an’ calls them.”

“The man?” d’Artagnan frowned. “What man?”

“The squeaking man.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He has nice clothes. And I think he has a bad leg. He walks just like you.”

The information she gave were as random as it could get and d’Artagnan tried to sort them in order to ask the right questions. “What do you mean, “squeaking”?”

“I dunno.” Another shrug of her small shoulders and nervously she scratched her head, before rubbing her nose against a sleeve that was almost stiff with snot. “He makes funny _iikiik_ noises when he walks. That’s when I hide.” She turned around and pointed her finger into a dark corner of the vault, where the area was lying in darkness. A whole mountain of wine barrels was stacked against the wall, a few of them visibly drenched and leaking, evidently where the acid smell originated from. By the way they balanced precariously on top of each other most of them had to be empty and d’Artagnan wondered how they could possibly be arranged in such manner without collapsing. The mountain reached right under the roof, only leaving a small gap where a frightened child would easily find a hideout. It was a good hiding place and d’Artagnan doubted the animals would find her there, especially considering the overpowering smell of fermented wine that permeated the vault.

“When the man comes, what does he do?”

“He... calls them. He puts something in his mouth and blows. Like a whistle but I can't hear a thing.” She bit her lip and lowered her voice. “Maybe he's a witch.”

Conspiratorially, he leaned closer and smiled tightly, humoring her.

“Perhaps. Can he do any other magic tricks?”

“Oh yes. They attack him but he never gets bitten. It looks really scary. They jump up an’ he catches them. It looks like they're fighting but then... then he just hugs them an’ they wag their tails like they a’ dogs. Like he's their master.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “You are a very smart young lady, Marie. Do you think you could help me getting up?”

She cocked her head. “Are yahurt? Ya look a little sick. Ya’r not gonna barf, are ya?” She pulled a face. “One time my brother barfed and then I had to barf and…”

Trying very hard to control his nausea that threatened to turn into a full blown sickness he tuned her rambling out and with all the remaining energy he could muster pushed himself upwards, still leaning against the door.

With a healthy dose of distrust she observed his efforts – probably expecting him to vomit right in front of her feet - but when he threatened to lose his footing, she quickly held out her arm and steadied him with her small hands against his hips.

“Where do you want to go? Please,” she almost whispered. “Don’t leave me here. I wanna go home.”

“Don’t worry. I am not going to leave you here but we need to hide so the man doesn’t find us. Do you think you can show me how to get to your hiding place?” He asked.

“You want to get up ther’?” She asked, completely in disbelief. “You can’t get up ther’.”

“Why?”

“Because grown ups don’t climb on no things.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “See this?” He pointed towards his shoulder where his pauldronwas strapped tightly against his aching muscles.  “This doesn’t make me a grown-up. It makes me a Musketeer. I can do _anything_. And if I have to, I will fly.”

 


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheew, I’m getting close to finishing this little story. There will be eight chapters in all, plus probably an epilogue to give it a nice closure. And I should maybe post every Thursday in the first place. Weekends are usually bad timing as you all might understand.
> 
> Thanks for the wonderful words, kudos and follows and even the time you took to read so far. It’s all very much appreciated. Still, it won’t prevent you from having to suffer through another cliffhanger. I’m so sorry. *goes into hiding*

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

\---

[Neil Gaiman](https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1221698.Neil_Gaiman)

\---

 

It was dark down here. The air felt cold and wet against their naked skin and it filled their nostrils with heavy, earthy scents that bordered on rottenness. The walls were unstable and if it weren't for the deep roots of the tree above their heads the tunnels would have long collapsed. Every contact with the walls resulted in a shower of dirt and little stones on their heads and clothes.

The first few feet they had to snake their way through a tight passage, bringing Porthos close to a panic attack as he was stuck, before a firm push from behind gave him the needed boost to get through the confinement.

“Thanks, Aramis,” he yelled up, as he got up from where he landed on all fours. Carefully, he straightened, testing the height of the place. Some meager daylight revealed a slightly larger tunnel that led downwards in a steep angle.

“Porthos?” A voice, dull and distant, reached Porthos. “Are you alright?”

“Just wonderful,” he replied. “Wonder, why we've never been 'ere befor'. We should'a brought some pillows for the ambience.”

The source of light vanished as Athos let himself glide through the narrow passage and with a pained groan, he let himself be caught by Porthos.

“This is a terrible idea, Athos,” Porthos didn't tire to repeat. “Ya should've stayed back.”

The leader merely grunted, wiped dirt of his clothes and Porthos took a few steps back to make room for Aramis, who too let himself slide downwards.

“So,” the marksman said, after they had lit two torches, which were to be carried in the front and the back. “Do we have a plan how to get out of here again?

“With d'Artagnan,” Athos merely answered and was following Porthos, who had already begun following the tunnel.

“That’s a fine plan.”

They walked for a while – Porthos ahead and Aramis in the back – before encountering a t-junction and wasted too much time discussing whether it would make sense to separate to cover more ground.

“No more separation. It’s what brought us here in the first place,” Athos ended the discussion, allowing no more objection. Porthos swallowed his concern as he watched Athos take a ragged breath, the older man’s hand pressing strongly against his injured side where he could see the light spotting of fresh blood seeping through the bandage.

He shared a meaningful glance with Aramis over their leader’s shoulder but did not argue.

They decided to start with the right path which soon led them to a dead end as the tunnel seemed to have collapsed a long time ago. The other path though, turned out more promising and it didn’t take them long to find themselves in an area that looked like someone … or something… had been here not too long ago. A wild array of indentions created a chaotic swirl of imprints into the soft earth.

Porthos kneeled to take a closer look, swiping his torch in a wide arc over the ground.

“These a’ the same as in the woods,” he concluded, looking up at his friend. “We must be getting clos’r.”

Following the tracks for a while they were silent, each men lost in his own thoughts, until Porthos heard a suppressed moan. He stopped and turned, expecting it to be from Athos but the latter merely looked as surprised as he and they moved their attention to Aramis, who was bent down on the hips, leaning with his hands on his knees as if he was going to be sick.

“Aramis,” he called out but his friend waved a hand dismissively.

“I am well,” Aramis began, though his tone betrayed his words. “I just… need a minute.” Looking up, he managed a crooked smile. “I fear I do not approve of narrow places.”

Porthos lifted his eyebrows, not quite convinced of his friend’s efforts to belittle his agitation.

“I remember us ‘aving been in tunnels worse than these and ya didn’t seem ta mind.”

An expression of guilt flashed over the marksman’s countenance, looking more like a grimace in the shadowy light of the fire. “It just came to my mind … Did any one tell Constance…?” He swallowed thickly, glancing from Athos to Porthos and back to the former. “We should have…”

“There is nothing ta tell, Aramis,” Porthos growled viciously, surprised about his bad temper. “d’Artagnan ain’t dead.”

“That’s not what I…” Aramis began, his face speaking volumes. Uncertainty, fear, and even pity written all over it, fueling Porthos’ anger even more until the big man almost growled.

“Ya might not say it out loud but I can read you like a book my friend. There’s somethin’ on yar mind and yar not addressing it. What do ya know what we don’t? It’s like ya have… like ya have already come ta terms with d’Artagnan not coming back. Like it’s all in vain because…” Porthos hunt for the right words trailed off.

“Don’t say that!”

“Say what? The truth?” Porthos shot back. “That you’ve given up on him? That ya shy away from making ya hands dirty searching for ‘im?”

“Enough, Porthos!” Athos said sharply as Aramis visibly recoiled at the painful accusation. For a split second, Porthos felt a grim satisfaction at the way his best friend’s face broke into a mask of utter forlorness until he realized that it was just the same feeling he was refusing to admit himself. The feeling that he so far had managed to outpace by looking the other way. Any other way. By ignoring the probabilities and just plain denying the facts. Aramis wasn’t like that and neither was Athos. Both men might be fearless and strong, loyal and of integrity but what they were not was fools. They knew what was at stakes and they had done their own share of situation calculation. Maybe with other results.

They were the rational ones, the ones who asked questions _before_ the killing blow while Porthos’ modus operandi resembled a confrontation of leaps and bounds. Who was he to damn them for their fears and nightmares?

All color had left Aramis cheeks and even in the orange glow of the torches his skin looked white as a sheet.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Porthos apologized, his anger having subsided as fast as it had risen. “I just want to find him.”

“So do I,” Aramis replied flatly. “Believe me when I tell you there is nothing more I want than to find him, but… I can’t help but consider the prospects, Porthos. And that makes it so much harder to be with hope. I’m not afraid of not finding him but…” Aramis trailed off, having lost the thread of despair. 

“… being too late,” Athos completed the sentence with a strangely far-off ultimacy.

Aramis blinked, his lips moving without producing a sound. Porthos swallowed thickly, about to take a step towards his best friend  when suddenly the flame in his hand was dancing frantically, growing small and hunched for a moment before regaining its blazing energy. Another sharp draft followed, causing both torches to react with diminished blazes and all three men turned into the direction where the draft was coming from.

“Who’s ther'?” Porthos yelled but he knew before he had finished that they would not receive an answer. The sounds of paws meeting soft earth and aggressive growling were reaching their ears and they knew they were trapped. There was no way they could escape. The tunnel they were in was tiny, barely high enough to walk with their heads high and no way to attack, let alone dodge one.

The animals – the sounds betrayed their number – came closer, reducing their speed and now it was just the vicious growls echoing back and forth.

A morbid thought crossed Porthos mind as he imagined if _they_ would be found down here and whether there would be anything left that would be able to identify them. It didn’t stop him from reaching for his schiavona. Which, of course, was mostly useless as he had no chance of wielding it efficiently in such a constricted place.  But he would go down fighting.

In about ten feet distance the leading animal stepped into the light, slowly and almost casually. Its teeth bared and dark eyes reflecting the orange flames, which made them look even more dangerous. A sharp growl caused Porthos to flinch but he stood his ground, waving his torch in front of him as it seemed to make the animal slightly more guarded. Or maybe, Porthos was just imagining it. He heard the quick, hastened breaths of his friends in his back.

“Athos?” Porthos hissed between clenched teeth, not sure what he expected the swordsman to reply. Athos already could look back to making an acquaintance with these beasts – _one_ of them -  and had barely survived.

The beast came closer, head low and shoulders tense, ready to make its move when its ears suddenly erected. It cocked its head, turning slightly to the back as if it was listening to something in the distance.

The animal hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the three men before rotating in one elegant move to hasten into the direction it had come from.

For a few moments, none of them said anything, as they collectively took some steadying breaths before Aramis cleared his throat and said: “I can't believe I'm saying that but I think we should follow.”

\---

Constance would be furious.

He could almost see her. Hands in her hips, her bosom heaving with indignation, the little wrinkle between her eyebrows deepening. It was one of the countless things he loved about her. The way she spoke her mind. The sparkling in her eyes whenever she scolded him. The intensity of her living and loving. Even her loyalty – however painful – to her wretched husband stoked his admiration for her.

Her fury was like a balm on his soul, making him feel loved even more.

Oh hell, if she could see him now, she would be beyond furious. She would tell him that he expected him to do better. To get himself out of this situation and come back to her to collect the dressing-down appropriate for his plight. Somehow, she would blame him for all this and yet behind that facade of proper distance expected from a married woman, he would see the flashing of something voluptuos that was reserved only for him. And he would take her wrath over her being out of his life anytime. Not to mention he had an obligation to the King of France and the garrison, a responsibility to his status as a Musketeer and man of honor but most of all he had a promise to keep towards his brothers to stay alive.

So even though his leg was literally killing him and his head was stuffed with cotton from a fever he climbed on the mountain of piled barrels, following the little girl called Marie. His arms were heavy as lead as they pulled his weight higher and higher, his muscles cramping and his breath coming in short, painful gasps. Marie's voice was calling for him, prompting him to keep going and to watch where he put his feet whilethe pile of waste beneath him was swaying precariously.

With his last remaining strength, he crawled after her into the small hiding space just below the ceiling in the shell of an empty barrel where it was dark but dry. The surface under knees and hands was rough and full of splinters but he had never seen a more comfortable spot. His shoulders met the cool wall in the back and his eyes were closing on their own as he felt was the small body of the little girl pressing against him, curling against his side for warmth.

“d’Artagnan?”she whispered. “A’ we gonna die here?”

He managed to crack his eyes open once more and looked at the nest of matted hair that reeked of too sparsely performed personal hygiene. Knowing fully well that he didn’t smell much better, he wrapped an arm around her bony shoulders.

“No."

“How…” another sniffle and a shudder of contentment, as she let herself sink into his embrace. “How’d ya know?”

“I  don’t,” he sighed and his eyes slipped shut once more. A memory, as clear as daylight, crept into his mind and he could see…

_Athos sitting next to him on the bench in the garrison’s courtyard, dagger in his left, whetstone in his right. The rhythmic sound of_ sssccinksssccinksssccink _, as he let the blade run along the hard surface. The sun was mirrored in it, sending almost painful rays of light into d’Artagnan’s eyes._

_“Do you ever wonder  if your life is… preset?” He had then asked his friend and mentor. “If this moment, this place is exactly where you are supposed to be?”_

_“No.” Athos had replied and d’Artagnan really had not been surprised._

_“Why not?”_

sssccinksssccinksssccink

_“I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in opportunities and what you make of it.”_

_“So…” d’Artagnan had pondered at that.  “It was your choice to become a Musketeer?”_

_“No.”_

_d’Artagnan had been unsure of what to make of that answer and not yet comfortable enough to dig deeper. Obviously, the older man had taken pity on him and resumed their conversation: “Did you decide for your father to be killed?”_

_d’Artagnan had swallowed convulsively at that, coughing in a painful staccato, causing the men training in the courtyard to stop in what they were doing and look into his direction. “No…” he had finally wheezed, glaring at Athos, horrified._

_Athos had returned his attention to his dagger, running his thumb over the sharpened blade._

sssccinksssccinksssccink

_“Choices aren’t roads that split, boy. Life is not a diversion of different paths to take. Life is life. You cannot change the road. You cannot go back, just ahead. Your only choice is how you overcome the rocky parts. Crawling, walking or running.”_

_D’Artagnan had frowned at that, starting to feel inadequate and stupid._

His awareness found its way back to the presence. To the pain and the danger and the little girl at his side.

“I promise I will get you out of here, Marie. And if I must I _will_ fly,” he added almost in a whisper, finally understanding and a sad smile curled his lips. He would fly and he would take the girl with him.

He eventually fell into a troubled state of sleep, one that was neither invigorating nor healing. One that kept his heart beating fast with images flooding his inner eye.

Constance, her finger lifted accusingly.

Porthos and Aramis calling out his name, searching.

Athos, falling over the edge of the cliff.

Then again, he was climbing up the mountain of barrels where bony hands were poking out from the inside trying to hold him back. Their fingernails were leaving painful traces on his skin, burning it. One of the hands managed to get a hold on his shoulder and fingers were digging deep into his flesh. Panic started to tighten his throat and he was starting to feel lightheaded when – with a large gulping breath – he woke up to Marie shaking him urgently.

“Please, wake up...” She whispered harshly. “The man. The man is coming,” she said when d'Artagnan's eyes finally focused.

The young Gascon was about to question how she knew that when dawning came in form of a squeaky, rhythmic noise. _IIikk phht IIikk phht_. A tiny metallic sound followed by the sound of something heavy being pulled over bare, rocky ground. The pace sounded slow, almost casual. Like someone was taking an unhurried stroll around the estate.

But the way Marie's eyes were starting to water with fearful tears he knew that reality couldn't be any further from the truth. After a few moments they heard a key being put into the lock and it took some rummaging before the door was pushed open and a man entered the vault with a very pronounced limp, that made him sway grotesquely from side to side while his left hand held onto the wall as not to tumble down the three steps.

_IIikk phht IIikk phht_.

Having reached the ground floor he just stood there for a few seconds, listening, before he pulled something from under his richly embroidered doublet and strongly blew into it, cheeks puffing out.

D'Artagnan carefully leaned forwards to get a better look. He knew the man. Had seen him more than once in court, always in the back of the crowd roaming around the king like bees circling around a beehive, hoping to reach its center. He was hard not to be seen as he was a large, wiry man, jutting out of the crowd with his height, at least one head length above the others. Still young, not older than his late twenties but he looked gaunt and sickly. His proportions always seemed a little off, like he had more joints than anatomically relevant and his swaying gait reminded d’Artagnan of the erratic twitches of dying animals. So far, he had never really thought about the man, had mostly tried to ignore him as his sight had used to stir up strange and unwanted feelings of shame and pity. Once, he had asked about him and Aramis and Porthos had shrugged their shoulders in a somehow out of character display of unease considering he was just the son of some rich nobleman, who enjoyed the favors of his father’s good name. A nobody, really, with some weight to his words. d’Artagnan had suppressed his growing unease which he had then mistaken for pity. But now, as he had the chance to look at him in a moment of complete concealment he saw yet something else in the man. The way his disabled physical stature indicated brittleness whereas his lanky face radiated a mixture of gleeful anticipation enriched by a whiff of madness as he stood there, swaying softly and muttering in a hoarse but firm voice: “Dinner is served.”

Nothing happened for a while. Just the man leaning with an almost imperceptible pitch in his breathing against the wall, as if was too weak to stand for a long time. d’Artagnan turned to take a look at Marie, who had crawled to the backmost end of their hiding place, her arms wrapped around her knees. After giving her an encouraging smile, he turned back to the vault, waiting as patiently as he was confused.  What the hell was going on here?

And – d’Artagnan cocked his head – was that music he was hearing?

Distant melodies and the constant jumble of many voices were being carried through the still open door, almost drowned out by his own strained breathing and finally the penny dropped.

They were at the palace.

Somewhere deep down in the lower parts, below the King’s and the Queen’s royal chambers and the cabinets. Below the ballroom where from the sounds of it a large number of guests were enjoying the winter ball. D’Artagnan shivered, which was not solely due to the fever.

The God forsaken winter ball.

His hands gripped the wooden plank harder but he didn’t feel the splinters stinging his skin. Something fishy was going on here and d’Artagnan knew what it was, when he recognized the sound of the beasts coming back. The scratching of claws against a stony ground and the threatening growls of hungry wolves. The wound in his thigh was pulsing in rhythm with paws meeting hard stones and he swallowed his panic, knowing that Marie and he stood no chance if their presence were to be revealed.

Half expecting the strange man to flee before the beasts arrived he remembered Marie telling him about the way he acted as one of theirs and he watched in fascination as the animals rushed into the chamber, three large beasts, each one more bigger as the other. The man pushed himself off the wall to stand as straight as possible, waiting in expectance without even batting his eyes. It looked odd - terrifying even- the way the animals were excitedly circling around him, standing on their hindlegs and ultimately licking over the man’s face like he was a long lost brother. There were no words spoken, no sounds of reassurance or reprimand that would give a sign of communication between them. It was a dance of minds, not strength, a battle of blinking, not hitting.

The man lifted his hand and chin almost imperceptibly but the beasts withdrew immediately and sat on their haunches, their tongues lolling to the side and their breaths rattling in their chests. Like dogs waiting to be fed. Loyal little devils.

The sight was both fascinating and offensive and for a moment, d’Artagnan almost forgot about the deadliness of the beasts.

“There you are, my lovelies,” the man almost purred, the animals erecting their ears in joyful anticipation. Backsides wriggling and tails slashing, raising dust and dirt from the floor. Slowly, the man turned and took the few steps back to the door before opening it and keeping it that way. For a few seconds, the animals stared at him, as if waiting for a confirmation which obviously occured as all of a sudden two of the beasts bounced up like one and ran through the door leading into the palace, while the last one remained a little longer, licking its master’s hands.

Next to d’Artagnan, a frightened sound reminded him of his young charge and he shushed her. Quickly, she scrambled back to the furthermost corner, embracing her knees to make herself as small as possible. Her large eyes filled with unshed tears. Too late. D’Artagnan saw the man look into their direction, frowning slightly. “Sit!” he ordered the wolf. The beast complied, tilting its head to the side.

“Who is there?” Now, that the man was speaking loudly his voice took on a high-pitched note that grated on d’Artagnan’s nerves and somehow would not fit the picture of the man before him. Slowly, the man shuffled down the stair and halfway through the vault, before coming to a halt at the foot of the mountain of barrels.

_IIikk phht IIikk phht_.

Trying to make as little sounds as possible d’Artagnan too had retreated to the back, crouching next to Marie. To his horror, the structure beneath him rocked precariously and he could feel its integrity waver. He froze. Marie’s fingers dug painfully into his upper arms while the man looked around.

“I asked who is there?”

They were trapped. There was no way he could protect himself, much less the little girl who trusted him with her life. Except… just an arm length away, embedded into the ceiling above their heads he detected a four-by-four-feet recess, covered by a wooden frame.

A trap door to a higher level.

He hesitated for a second but he knew they had no other way to go and he would have to do it now, even if it meant revealing himself.

Below, the man whistled through his teeth and without having to look d’Artagnan knew what would happen. Once the wolf had their scent they were easy prey. It was merely a question of time and gravitation.

“Stay down!” he told Marie and rose to his knees, pressing his hands against the trapdoor which would  not budge. His kneecaps pressing against the barrel below he took all his remaining strength and pushed. A hoarse sound of agony evaded his lips but his efforts paid out as - accompanied by the falling of dirt and dust - the trap door moved. Just a bit but enough to know that it was possible. Again, he took a deep breath and ignored the solemn command of “Attack!” that came from the vault.

He dared to take a quick glance downwards where the wolf was beginning to climb. To his short-lived relief the animal did not immediately manage to get a good footing and it fell down hard when a barrel toppled over beneath him. Short lived because this also meant less stability in their little escape place.

Marie made a short sound of surprise when the gutted barrel they were hiding in jerked violently and lost at least one feet of height as the mountain beneath them started to get into motion.

d’Artagnan needed to act fast before his leverage was gone. He stood, stemming his shoulders against the trap. Above, he could hear a loud crash when whatever it was that had barricaded their exit was thrown off, making place for the door to fall open and to the side.

“Take my hand!” d’Artagnan yelled and reached for Marie’s hand. The little girl, though horrified, complied without second thought and scrambled towards him, her small fingers closing around his free hand.

Just in time.

With a yelp, which was completely drowned out by the cacophony of bursting barrels that cascaded into the vault below them, d’Artagnan held onto the edge of the trapdoor with one hand as the ground beneath his feet was suddenly gone. His right shoulder screamed in protest as his own as well as Marie’s weight were dangling on it.

“Climb!” he instructed Marie through clenched teeth. Climbing over waste and rickety housing constructions had been good for one thing and purposefully the little girl grabbed the belt that was still wrapped around his leg just above the grim bite wound.

D’Artagnan screamed and his vision blurred. Still, he held on to the stony edge above him not even feeling the pain when he bit his tongue and blood bubbled between his lips, running in the back of his mouth. The noise and the pain and knowledge that he could NOT LET GO had him stubbornly keeping his hold. Marie kept climbing almost easily, swift as a squirrel. She used his clothes, his shoulders and his arms until she reached the trapdoor and got herself to safety. Her dirty face reappeared when d’Artagnan’s free hand finally got hold of the edge and the strain on his right shoulder receded for a few seconds, yet overshadowed by the nauseating pain in his broken fingers and the renewed pit of torment that was his ruined leg.

“Warn them! Run!” He gasped, the terror and fear in Marie’s eyes tearing at his heart.

His fingers slipped and he fell. Moments before the ground welcomed him with unrelenting force he could hear someone call his name. Someone, whose voice he had not expected to ever hear again.

\---

Athos could hear the breath rattle in his chest and intensified by the burning sensation of the claw marks on his side a sharp stabbing pain seemed to almost split him in half just below his ribcage. His shoulder still throbbed dully. Ignoring the piercing looks of Aramis that were digging hot furrows in his back, he gnashed his teeth and hurried along, following Porthos‘ lead.

The limitation ofhe tunnels, the darkness and the earthy smell were creating a dull sensation of compressed nothingness. Like they were running around in their own graves, trying to find a way out. Which – in a morbid sense of interpretation – they just might be doing. They had lost the trail and it had taken them half a dozen turnoffs to find it again.Here and there the stony floor had denied them any any track marks and they had started to feel like headless chicken running around in a big coop. But thanks to Porthos‘ drive to DO something – to gather information and to feed his unquenchable hunger for crumbs of hope -  they had finally found the trail again, leading them into a large cave. High above them, a large crevice split the ceiling in half, revealing the night sky illuminated by a bright moon which turned the normaly dark blue into a blueish gray, almost swallowing the light of the stars in its wake. There was a disctinct chill in the air and it felt good for a change. Less like a tomb, more like an open window. Like a bread crumb bringing them closer to their brother. Or to his body. Whichever.

_Finding him and being too late._

His own words – spoken in inextinguishable legitimacy –rang in his mind and he regretted speaking them. Aramis didn’t deserve the harsh blame that had accompanied his spell of utter clarity. He had regretted it even before he had finished the sentence. But he couldn’t take it back now, no matter how often Aramis‘ hurt glance met his. No matter of how deeply Porthos‘ eager devotion hurt his very soul. The contradiction between his two friends tore him apart and it was getting hard and harder to forma clear thought of his own at this point. So in his mind he withdrew, letting Porthos and Aramis pull him along. The one thing he knew was that he wanted to _know_ so he could come to terms with whatever awaited them at the end of their journey.

He almost fell over Porthos who had suddenly stopped and crouched low, looking at something on the ground.

„What is it?“ Aramis wanted to know and from his kneeling position Porthos raised his hand, showing them a small trace of blood smeared at his fingertips. He did not comment, instead rose swiftly and sped up until Athos had to run to keep up. The tunnel they found themselves in was long and without any special characteristics, except that every once in a while a torch had been lit indicating a route that was at least occasionally used by someone. In the distance he thought he heard a voice, high pitched and portentous. Unexpected.

Their soft boots were making almost no sound as they accomplished the last paces until they reached the end of the tunnel, where a heavydoor stood wide open revealing a larger room that was lit with more torches. The stench, the chaos and the noise that awaited them took some time to sink in.

What looked like a huge waste dump of broken barrels, wooden crates and rotten lumber was plummeting towards them like a huge tidal wave. A still intact cask drunkenly rolled towards them with gusto and they had to jump out of its way. It burst behind them, the resulting crash completely drowned out by the explosion of noise that took place in front of thim

Athos could barely hear Porthos’ growl of “What the hell!”, before he came aware of three things thatmade his heart jump in his chest, both with fear and surprise.

First, one of those beasts trying to jump over the hubbub but failing miserable. Its limbsawkwardly sticking into the air as it skidded alongside the bulk of waste andgettinghalf buried before regaining its balance and jumping on its feet.

Second, the sight of a man standing next to the pandemonium, looking into their direction with a scowl on his distantly familiar face before – almost indifferently – stepping through a door and closing it behind himself.

Thirdly, the unexpected figure of another man hanging from the ceilingwith his back turned to them on the other side of the room. Someone with the poor remains of a blue cloak wrapped around his shoulders, a battered pauldron strapped to his shoulder and the unmistakable mop of dark hair.

He was hanging almost 15 feet above the ground, too high to make it safely back down and from the way his body was swaying precariously,it didn’t look like he had the strength to pull himself up.

“No,” Athos wheezed, even before the inevitable happened. “Nonononono…” The litany of denial fell from his lips as if its intensity could change the reality.

The man fell, arms and legs windmilling, and Athos screamed.

“d’ARTAGNAN!

 


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy easter weekend to all of you. And finally every is where they’re supposed to be. Together, for one. Oh, and no evil cliffhanger this time. That should count for something.  
> Thanks again for all the wonderful feedback. Also, again, this story is not beta’s and all mistakes are undisputable mine.

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

\---

Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

\---

 

Even on the best of days Marie wasn’t one to obey.Life in The Court didn’t teach you to obey. The kind of person it usually brought forth wasshaped by hunger and cold, embitterment and brutalization in the face of a life that everyone feared and no one deserved.It was everyone one his own. And if you didn’t stick to that, you’d quickly get overrun. Quickness, self-defence and deceit ranked high on the list of characteristics that would help you make it through another day.

What it most definitely did not include was the ability to take orders.

“d’Artagnan!” Hersoft outcry was drowned out by the noise and as she leaned a little over the rim of the trapdoor she got a glimpse of the remaining animal, which by now had managed to get back on its feet, trying with shaky limbs to get closer to where d’Artagnan had been buried within seconds by the imploding barrel.

His order to _Warn them! Run!_ still rang in her ears and she managed to get her body to move. Looking around, she found herself in what looked like a small storage room. A broad strip of light from under a door bathed the room in a greyish twilight. Along the walls, wooden shelves carried countless jars filled with fruits and jam. Cabbages and onions were hanging in nets on hooks from the ceiling and three large bags of a gritty substance that might have been flour.

For a few seconds, she was tempted to grab something to eat, but the decision was taken away from her as the door to the small room opened and a young girl entered witha dirty apron bound in front of her simple dress.Her face - still featuring the soft roundness of childhood – distortedinto a surprised grimace as she recoiled and pressed her hand against her chest. A startled sound escaped her lips and Marie took her chance. Quickly, she scampered to her feet and squeezed past the girl into the next room, which turned out to be a large kitchen.

Flurry acitivity greeted her. A plump man was stirring a large pot while staring at her dumbly. Two elder women were looking up from where they were peeling potatoes and and the air was saturated with the wonderful smell of cooked meat, spiced vegetables and freshly baked bread. Behind the women steam rose from half a dozen pots and pans on a huge stove where yet another man was throwing carrots in one of the pots. On a table in the middle of a room sat a large tray with a whole suckling dished up, apple in its snout included. Somewhere to her left something crashedto the floor and hot water spilled all over. Before it could reach Marie’s feet she was already running, having spotted the exit on the other side of the large room. She evaded the grasping fingers of one of the women and rushed through the door, though not without reaching for another apple – red and shiny – sitting in a bowl next to the door. Her fingers clasped the fruit in a firm grip. A long hallway spread in front of her and she followed it, meeting and almost overrunning two young servants who were carrying large trays of _hors d’oevre_.

Headlessly, she took the first staircase she could find and climbed upwards,stumbling over her own feet. After falling and bashing her shin against the edge of the stair, she ignored the pain and picked herself up. The music wasgetting distinctly louder as she reached the top and took a moment to reorientate. The new hallway appeared much wider and significantly more decorated. Long, fluffy carpets covered the floor and huge chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling were bathing everything in a soft and warm glow. Colourful tapestries and precious looking paintings of pretty princesses and serious looking noblemen alternated with flowery wallpaper and richly ornamented double doors.

Marie’s eyes widen when she finally realized where she was. She was in the freaking palace. Philippe would be so jealous, she thought with the hint of a smile.

The cheerful melodies and the sounds of carefree conversations managed to calm her a little as she – with her mouth still hanging wide open – stood still and tried to gather her senses as well as her breath.

“Hee, you!” A voice suddenly startled her and alarmed, she saw a uniformed man coming through one of the open doors to her right. “What are you doing here?”he yelled and advanced, while reaching for his sword. Without hesitation she hastened on, understanding that she couldn’t just walk to anyone and tell him that “Oh, bye the way, wolves are roaming freely around here”. She would find herself in the Bastille faster than she could say _Musketeer_.

Swiftly, she continued taking the stairs and on the next level found herself in a much narrower hallway with simple white walls on one side and wide arches on the other, leading to a sumptuous loggia overlooking a wide, open hall, its floor not visible from where she stood but obviously the place where the music and the voices were coming from. A constant buzzing, accentuated by the sounds of violins and flutes, filled the air and she could feel the vibrations of it all under her feet.

Her pursuer, still hard on her heels, had reached the stairs and she could hear his heavy boots thud against the marble steps.

Without much thought, she steppedahead, towards the ornate balustrade overlooking the ball room where a large crowd had gathered, the middle reserved to the dancers performing a graceful round dance, the wide skirts of the women swinging in tact with the musical ensemble. The dresses were beautiful, Marie thought, as she tried to take in all the wealth and opulence presented to her in such anoverwhelming manner. Not knowing where to look first her gaze finally found the imposing figure of the man who could only be the king and beside him the most beautiful woman she had ever…

A loud voice behind her made her jump and she didn’t waste anymore time. She started to run once more but didn’t get very far. With a breathless outcryshe collided with something hard, the force of the impact hurling her on her backside.

Looking up, she found herself staring into the face of a young man, who was looking about as surprised as she did. His right hand fumbled for his sword – helplessly so, as if he had forgotten where exactly he had put it – and as her gaze followed his arm upwards she could see something strapped against his shoulder, just like the piece of leather d’Artagnan had carried.Another Musketeer.

“Please,” Marie stammered and tried to crawl backwards. “Please…”

“How did you get in?” The man wanted to know, frowning deeply but to Marie’s relief he resheathed his sword and instead pushed his hand through his hair, which was glowing with a bright halo in front of the brightly illuminated ceiling. He looked around with a puzzled expression and stared at Marie’s pursuer who had finally caught up with her.

“She’s… “ The running man was panting heavily and with a nod pointed towards the apple in her hand, accusing with blatant hostility. “She’s a thief and should be arrested, immediately!”

“She’s a child!” The redhead said, not too unfriendly, and Marie scrambled closer to him, instinctively understanding her best chance to make herself heard was with the man with the pauldron. “Leave it be and go back to your position. I will take care of it.”

“You do that, Musketeer!” The other man spat, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he let his eyes roam over her filthy state. “And make sure that garbage does not get anywhere near anyone of importance.”

“In this case, we should be glad none of _importance…_ ” At this, the redhead sneered, but in his eyes glinted amusement. “… noticed her.”

With that, her pursuer turned on his heels and strutted off, mumbling profanities under his breath.

“Fine then, young lady,” he began, looking serious. “Would you mind telling me how you managed to enter the palace? Are you alone?” His frowned at this, and threw a searching glance around the room, his eyes squinting slightly.

“I’m alone,” Marie sniffled and she felt her courage flee. “There’s…” the stupid nose wouldn’t stop running and she hiccupped. “The wolves are in the palace,” she finally managed to blurt out. “They were in the basement but the man let them out. They’re coming and d’Artagnan told me to warn you.”

At that, the man visibly flinched, his eyes growing wide, and Marie wondered if she had said something wrong. Suddenly unsure, she attempted to crawl backwards, just in case she had made the man angry but he held up his hands in surrender.

“I promise, I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her but there was a sudden urgency in his voice that Marie had already seen in d’Artagnan. Slowly, he neared her and put forth his hand, offering his help to get her back on her feet.

Maybe it was the way he offered her his help. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her. Maybe it was the hint of concern that flashed in his visage as she mentioned d’Artagnan’s name. It didn’t really matter. Because she took the hand and let herself be pulled to her feet. Swaying slightly from a mixture of hunger and agitation, she held onto the wall and it was a few seconds before she realized he had started asking questions again.

“…d’Artagnan? How do you…”Wiping his face in a gesture of indecision, he halted, looked around and seemed to come to a conclusion as with new found fervor he put his hand on her shoulder and gently, yet firmly, pulled her with him.

“Come with me, quickly!” Marie let herself being led away, back downstairs and along the hallway until Marie could see a small crowd of people, one of them a large man with fine clothing, grey hair and a blue cloak.

“Captain,” her chaperone called out and the manwith the grey hair, who had just been talking to another guard, turned towards them, frowning in anger as his eyes fell on them. “Captain Treville, a word, please!”

“Gaëtan, what did I tell you about leaving your watch?” The captain reprimanded in a brisk tone and Marie knew this was not a man to take on. There was a distinct air of authority orbiting him as his eyes wandered between them back and forth.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but…” The man next to her, Gaëtan, slightly pushed her closer to the imposing Captain. “I really think we should hear her …”

In this moment, a terse scream echoed from somewhere in the distance – probably from the lower parts of the Palace – and Captain Treville looked up, alarmed, ordering the man he had spoken to in silent communication to investigate.

“I don’t have time for that…”

“Please, Sir…” Gaetan interrupted him, his voice slightly wavering as the impatient expression hardened on Captain Treville’s face. “She mentioned d’Artagnan.”

Sharply, Captain Treville looked back at her and this time he let his dark blue eyes rest on her for a long time, in which Maria didn’t dare to breathe. Fearfully, she chewed on her lower lip, seeking instinctively the nearness of the friendlier of the two men.

“Speak!” Captain Treville ordered. Then after another blink, his voice got a little softer. “What about d’Artagnan?”

“He told me ta run and warn ya.”

“Warn us of what?” the man inquired.

“The wolves. The’re coming,” Marie almost whispered, then – as she remembered d’Artagnan – she added: “Ther’s still one in the basemen’ with him. He…” She had to swallow convulsively as she remembered the moment as her protector had fallen, now at the mercy of the awful animal. “Ya have ta help, him. Please!”

That’s when a another scream – this time much closer – and Treville rose, bellowing commands in short orders at two men guarding an open door, behind which Marie could see the noble men and women dance move in rhythm with the music.

“Modeille, try to get the King and the Queen to their quarters. Act quickly but without causing too much of a stir. Capaut, you and the rest, get inside the ballroom and close the doors from the inside.” He nodded at Gaëtan, while a general hustle and bustle revealed the guard’s dutifulness as they fanned out, following their Captain’s order, who finally nodded towards her Marie. “You keep her safe, understood?” Gaëtan nodded and without further ado pulled her along, away from the Captain and his busy men, back upstairs to the balcony above from where they had come.

Without uttering a word, the young Musketeer strode towards a plain door that stood slightly ajar and she found herself firmly pushed into a small storeroom, equipped with piles of table-cloths, candles and boxes of sterling cutlery. Three enormous chairs were vertically stacked, taking most of the space. So much that Maria bumped her knee against the door, as she slid down to sit on the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs to stay warm and keep the tremors of exhaustion at bay.

She waited, apple still grasped tightly in her hands.

\---

Within the time it took to blink, d’Artagnan had vanished under the pile of wood and it took Athos a few moments to get his body to move. When it did, there was no more pain and no more fatigue. Only a fire in his heart that fueled him.  How could this be happening? How could they have found him only to lose him like that? The injustice of it all made his ears ring and his fingers clasping the handle of his sword with painful intensity. Now, at least he had an enemy, a weapon and something to aim it at.

His cry of rage was being complemented in a strangely empowering eruption as Porthos and Aramis followed his example.Momentarilyirritated by the new sounds, the wolf looked up into their direction, growling aggressively but quickly decided d’Artagnan to be more worthwile in terms of easy prey.

“HEEE!” Porthos yelled, voice booming and trying to get the beast’s attention. Athos didn’t waste any breath on words as he tried to avoid the largest obstacles. With his feet he pushed some of the smaller barrels out of his way, jumping over the bigger ones as his right hand grasped the pommel of his sword and in one smooth movement pulled it out of its secured position. Heart pumping and lung wheezing he moved forwards, two steps ahead, one back as the ground under his feet was turning into a minefield. Something beneath him broke and he felt himself drop a few inches, losing precious seconds as he had to regain his balance.

The wolf neared the position where they had seen d’Artagnan fall and time seemed to come to a standstill. The animal had its back to them and his head looked like it was digging into hole with a sound alarming close to a pleased smack.

“No!” Athos yelled, quietly though, as his breath failed him.

It was still too far away. Too far away to do something. Then something whooshed past his ear and bounced off the animal’s hip. It was a massive piece of wood, from the sight at least 30 pounds heavy and thereby a dangerously heavy missile. The animal howled in pain and turned around, biting into nothingness as it tried to fend of whatever it had been hit with.

But that was good. It meant less teeth in d’Artagnan’s close vicinity.

It wailed, more annoyed than in pain, then stared at Athos, Porthos and Aramis, an almost malicious twinkle in its eyes.

It turned back towards where d’Artagnan had to be, lowered it’s muzzle … and to Athos surprise gave a short but loud yelp. Forcefully throwing its head back, it sprang on its hind legs, leaping backwards until it once more lost its footing and tumbled to the side, getting almost buried under the barrels, which by now had come almost to a standstill. Athos could not see its snout as the animal’s forepaw was covering it. A spray of red fountained from between its teeth and Athos’ heart was plummeting in his chest suddenly imagining the worst. Until he saw something that was definitely not a human limb but in fact a dagger, protruding from its snout. It had been rammed right into its upper jaw and from the angle had to be pointing towards its eyes or even the brain.

It meant d’Artagnan was still able to react to the danger he was in. He had to be awake and alert to handle the dagger and use it with enough force and precision to cause damage like that.

The animal was now howling and writhing on the the floor, all the while shaking its head vigourously as if trying to make the object hurl away. Confused and panicked, it snapped its jaw with an audible click, driving the dagger only deeper andpromptly fell to the side, twitching and kicking its feet blindly until it lay completely still.

The whole scenehadn’t lasted more than a few seconds but it was enough time to tackle the remaining distance. Porthos was the first to reach the animal and Athos watched with detached satisfaction as the other man drove his sword deep into the animal’s torso with a raging fierceness that seemed almost overstated as the animal was obviously already dead. In the meantime, Athos and Aramis started pulling off the debris still covering d’Artagnan.

“We’re here, d’Artagnan. Hold on!” Aramis said – his voice calm and steady and soothing like he was offering a well-meant advice on horse care.

A bloody hand became visible, reaching out from the ground and Athos grasped it without conscious thought, relishing in the fact that d’Artagnan was alive.

Holding the hand tightly, he felt d’Artagnan’s finger squeeze in return. “We will get you out of here in no time, d’Artagnan.”

With his free hand, Athos reached for a rotten boardplaced across d’Artagnan’s chest and threw it behind him. Unfortunately, not without his body regretting the movement as his shoulder and his side complained with a sharp pain which he stubbornly ignored.Brown eyes were now blinking owlishly up at them as d’Artagnan’s upper body was revealed, his forehead creased in confusion, as if surprised by what he he was seeing.

“Athos?” the younger man rasped, almost inaudibly. The soaring emotions of relief and the rattling of the barrels toppling over was drowning everything else out from Athos’ conception. But then, most of the debris had been cleared away and they finally got their first good look of their missing fourth.

He was dirty and even though he had been missing barely longer than three days, he looked almost emaciated. His cheekbones were standing out harshly and his lips were dry and cracked. Chunks of dirt and what looked like moss were tangled in his hair. The former color of his clothes was camouflaged by dark patches of what might or might not be blood. The new pair of boots he was wearing were ruined and an unappropriate sense of loss wanted to rise deep within Athos’ as he recalled once more the pride and vanity the younger man had shown after he had bought them. Finally,Athos’ gaze rested on the young man’s mangled thigh, which was bound with a makeshift tourniquette made of d’Artagnan’s belt. The breeches were hanging in shreds, barely covering a large area of red and swollen skin, almost black in places that Athos was hoping came from dried blood and not decaying flesh. Covering his mouthwith his free hand – ignoring the unmistakable stench of illness and missing hygiene – he swallowed, forcing his eyes back to d’Artagnan’s face as he heard Aramis whispered exclamation of “Mon Dieu!” which wasn’t exactly helping his onsetting panic.

“It’s alright, d’Artagnan. Everything is going to be all right,” Athos rambled, throwing a helpless glance at Aramis who didn’t meet his eyes, but nodded instead before adding with forced cheerfulness: “Certainly!”

The marksman kneeled, letting his eyes roam efficiently over the young man’s body, his hands carefully running over arms and legs, checking for broken bones or additional wounds. He swiftly proceeded to the head, wiping matted hair to the side and carefully prodding the back of d’Artagnan’s head, when his fingers came back bloody. He looked up, meeting Athos’ eyes.

_This is beyond my skills,_ Aramis eyes were saying but his face stayed impassionate.

Athos watched as he leaned directly over his protégé’sface, waiting for the injured man’s eyes to find his. “d’Artagnan?Do you hear me?” He asked, his voice steady and calm and Athos could almost feel a large portion of his tension flee as d’Artagnan blinked a few times before pulling a grimace, clearly indicating what he thought of that question. “’f course I do. M’ ears are perf’ctly fine. Now h’lp me up!” He ordered, voice slightly slurred. Firmly, Aramis pressed his hand flat on his chest to stop him from rising.

“Don’t!”

“What…?” d’Artagnan croaked, looking confused again.

“I have to make sure you didn’t hurt your back.”

“’m fine…,” came the expected reply and behind Athos – almost forgotten – Porthos snorted.

“Usually whenya say that ya’re anything but fine, lad.”

Ignoring the comment, Athos put on a serious face. “I order you to not move until Aramis let’s you, understood?” he commanded, feeling relieved as he let the realization sink in that d’Artagnan wasn’t just alive but alert and demanding and his usual charming self. He would not have to carry a body back home but a brother.

Still clutching d’Artagnan’sfingers, he simultaneously wanted to scream at the young man for having scared them so badly and embrace him, smelliness and grossness be damned.

Until a distant scream reached his ears coming from above them where a trapdoor was standing wide open, the room behind it only sparsely illuminated. A scream that spoke of horror and fear for someone’s life.

“Can we move him _now_?” Porthos asked worriedly, looking at Aramis, who was running his hand through his hair in a strangely uncoordinated motion. Athos could almost _see_ his mind racing. His two hearts – the caring one as well as the one that shot bottles from the air, blindfolded – were battling, trying to make a decision that would neither hurt d’Artagnan any further, nor put more people in danger.

Pleadingly, d’Artagnan spoke up and it wasn’t hard to see how much it cost him.“We have to hurry.Two wolves running free in the palace.” He met puzzled frowns and sighed, communicating his judgment of _don’t be daft_ as obvious as it was possible under these conditions with just the roll of his eyes. “We ‘re below the palace and tha’ man let loose the wolves. They’re going t’have a full feast once the’ fin’ the ball’oom,” he added, the words even more garbled.

Realization finally hit Athos hard and promptly – as if to underline the serious trouble they were in –rang another scream, much closer, above their heads and they all looked up.

“Help me up!” d’Artagnan croaked once more, the steel in his voice testament of his unwavering drive. “Please.” Athos memory flashed back to an image of a nine-year-old d’Artagnan with a broken arm, who took the shot anyway and knew that they did not have much of a choice. They had an oath to uphold and a King to protect. There would be a time for healing, a time for talking and I time for giving d’Artagnan a dressing down he would never forget. And possiblya new pair of boots.

Simultaneously, Athos and Aramis reached down to grab one of d’Artagnan’s forearms and heaved him into a standing position. It took a few seconds for d’Artagnan to get back a small sense of balance and he was leaning heavily on both men at his side, favouring his injured leg. With his head hanging low, his unruly mop of hair was hiding his face but Athos didn’t need to see his grimace of pain to know that the young man was not doing well. His body was radiating an alarming heat and he could feel d’Artagnan’s limbs tremble beneath his firm grip.

Carefully, they made their way past the dead animal and over the battlefield of wood and iron fittings, reaching out of the mountain of garbage like skeletal fingers. Porthos was walking in front of them, trying to clear the way.

The door, to their surprise, was unlocked, revealing another tunnel with half a dozen closed doors leading right and left. If d’Artagnan was right – which Athos didn’t doubt– and they were under the palace, then they were in an area that was unknown to them. The palace being one of the safest places in France, as it was home and safe harbor for the royal family, Athos had always assumed that he knew every corner, every room and every tunnel. But he had to admit, he had no idea where they were. He made a mental note to speak to Treville about the fact that the past horrorshad come from the very source this country had every right to expect to be nourished and protected from. They would have to recheck and redo all the maps that existed from the palace as well as its surroundings. This would mean a whole mountain of paperwork.

“Where the ‘ell are we?” Porthos rumbled, as if reading Athos’ mind, rattling on one of the doors and finding it locked. “And ‘ow do we get out?”

To his left, d’Artagnan suddenly stumbled, his foot getting stuck on the edge of a thick piece of rug that had seen better days, and Athos grunted in pain as the sudden motion put a strain on his barely healing wound. “d’Artagnan!” he snapped, as the younger man slumped and if Aramis hadn’t put himself in front of him to take the brunt he would have crashed face first on the floor.

“Whoa!” Porthos called out andrushed to their help,lowering the now unconscious d’Artagnan on the floor, so his was lying on his back, his head in Athos’ lap. His breath was coming in hard, strained wheezes and his eyes were moving restlessly, fluttering rapidly so that the white of his eyes was visible.

“He’s burning up,” Aramis stated, his hand cupping d’Artagnan’s cheek. “He needs…” Aramis wiped a shaking hand over his face and Athos’ mouth felt completely dry as he detected the exasperation in the medic’s demeanour.

“Aramis! Focus!” Athos growled.

“I’m trying!” Aramis snapped and as if he had burned his hands on d’Artagnan’sskin he hastily pulled it back. “But, you don’t understand.”He motioned towards d’Artagnan’s. “This is bad! Really bad. If he had gotten help immediately after the attack, he would’ve stood a chance, but…” He stopped, eyes shining suspiciously.

Taking all his remaining calm Athos leaned forwards to put his hand on the medics shoulder and squeezedcomfortingly.“Aramis, this is d’Artagnan. He’s made it so far on his own. Just imagine what he can do now that we are together. It’s on us get him through whatever comes now,”Athos stated calmly .

“I’ve seen this before, Athos. It never ended well.”

“Don’t say that!” Porthos barked, still towering above them and firm like the rock that he was. The two kneeling man were looking up at him as Porthos continued, a little less fiercely. “We ‘aven’t come this far to lose ‘im now.”

Athos thoughts were racing and deep down he knew that Aramis was right. One look at his protégé’s mangled leg and he knew that they would need more than a concoction of bitter tea, a herbal poultice and a few hours of healing sleep. There was something in d’Artagnan’s body killing him from the inside. Running through his veins like a poison and after four days it had taken over most of his body.

“Right now, there’s nothing I can do,” Aramis announced, but to Athos’ relief the Spaniard seemed to have found his inner balance. “What he needs now is nothing less than a miracle.” Aramis said matter-of-factly.

“Well then,” Athos said, matter-of-factly, lips pursed in what was a grim yet determined smile. “What are we waiting for? We have a miracle to perform!”

Aramis offered a slightly more confident nod and his shoulders straightened. “We have to get him somewhere safe, somewhere clean and somewhere warm. His fever needs to get down and his wounds to be washed thoroughly and repeatedly. He is too weak, too dehydrated. The rest is his own doing. But first of all, he can’t stay here. Porthos… would you…?”

The big man understood and kneeled, his arms reaching under the unconsciousman’s back and knees to lift him up with a grunt. D’Artagnan’s face scrunched up in pain and he mumbled something none of them could understand.

This wasn’t what Athos had hoped for but it was much better than what he had feared.

The rest would surely be a walk in the park.

 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule once more out of tune. Be glad it’s earlier, not later. I’m absolutely unreliable these days *sigh* Two more chapters after this one plus probably an epilogue and I’d be so happy to hear from you. Mistakes are all mine while the characters are not, except for those who are. Forgive me medical inaccuracies. I’m an IT-girl, not a doctor, Jim! Oops, wrong fandom.

When ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in showers.  
\---

Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson

\---

 

It took them half a dozen more hallways, stairs and vaults before they finally found themselves in a familiar area, allowing them to proceed methodically. Stepping through a narrow doorway, its hinges hanging loose, it was Aramis who declared triumphantly: “I know where we are.”

The doorway had ended on a tiny landing, forking into three directions, two downwards and one up. Getting the lanky frame of d’Artagnan through the tight tunnels had turned into their largest challenge so far. After the reluctant approval of Aramis, Porthos carefully rested d’Artagnan’s bulk over his shoulder. The young man had complained with a few whimpers but had not woken entirely up. Their odyssey though, had sped up considerably after that.

They were near the kitchen, Athos now realized as well, as the wonderful smell of roasted meat and spiced wine was almost overpowering after the musty air. Any other day the four of them would have loved to make a quick detour for a bowl of stew or just an apple but the precious cargo on Porthos back never even let the thought cross his mind. Taking two steps at a time – chest heaving with exertion - he followed Aramis and Porthos, trusting the marksman’s lead, and even over the rush of blood in his ears he heard in the distance the cacophony of screams and loud orders peppered with the growling barks of the animals.

“Let’s get him out of harm’s way,” Aramis said as he stopped, having reached the ground floor and waved them towards a closed door, leading into a small room with nothing but a small table on the back wall next to the windows and two settees placed in the middle. Only dimly lit by a neglected fire in the large fireplace and half a dozen large candles it was lying in snug semidarkness, providing enough light to see somewhat. Porthos knew from earlier experience that the room was sometimes used to host less welcome petitioners. It was vacant enough to be boring but comfy enough to not cause outright complains. Inconspicuous.

Porthos was breathing hard as he bent over and carefully let d’Artagnan’s sink into the cushions, while Athos made sure the Gason’s head didn’t get rattled too much. To their surprise, the young man’s eyes fluttered open and recognition and surprise gleamed in the fever-glazed orbs as he let them wander over his three brothers.

“I w’s afraid I ‘d b’n dreaming,” d’Artagnan mumbled and tried to sit up, only to fall back with a groan.

“Not a dream. We’re here,” Athos assured, putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. Nervously glancing at the closed door, he turned to Aramis, then Porthos. “Help Treville! I’ll stay with him.” It was testament of his own terrible physical wellbeing that he didn’t even consider fighting himself. Instead he leaned heavily with one arm on the high rest of the sofa and suppressed a groan, pressing his free hand against his side, which earned him a troubled look from Aramis.

“Go!”

Porthos wanted to protest but every argument he had to offer was immediately squashed as a chilling shout of pain rose directly in front of their door, followed by Treville’s valiant order of “Do not fall back! We have to steer them away from the doors!”

After one long, assessing glance at d’Artagnan as well as Athos, Aramis nodded. “We will be back soon,” he said, to both d’Artagnan and Athos. “Don’t go away!”

“Not planning to,” d’Artagnan winced, looking tired but alert.

“I will make sure of that,” Athos reassured grimly, as if he actually expected d’Artagnan to get up and wander off like a disobedient child, which made Porthos chuckle and Aramis dip his head in understanding. Athos would make sure no further harm would come to the young man.

The two men hurried off, reaching for their weapons before they stepped through the door, bathing the room for a moment into a bright light that made d’Artagnan squint his eyes. With a bang, the door was shut and the two men were alone. Silence settled around them and the sound of fighting evaporated into the background. Maybe the soldiers were succeeding in their attempts to lure away the wolves to a less crowded area. Athos considered to take a look himself until a shudder went through d’Artagnan’s frame.

“You are cold?” It wasn’t a real question, more like a statement and he did not wait for an answer before staggering towards the fireplace, where he undid his weapons belt to put it on the floor before sitting on his haunches to put more logs onto the lazy pile of red glowing wood. The fire sputtered and crackled, sending waves of heat into the small room like ripples in a pond. Immediately, the temperature began to climb and Athos closed his eyes for a few moment just to enjoy the pleasant sensation. A fancy set of fire irons stood next to the fireplace, probably more costly than a Musketeer’s monthly salaire and he took a long piece of brazen poker to stir the embers, encouraging the flames to hungrily lick on the new logs.

“You fell. I believed you dead.” d’Artagnan’s tense voice broke through his silent contemplation and Athos closed his eyes.

“So did I,” he said, put down the poker and realized that getting up once more would be more of a challenge than getting down. Leaning heavily against the beautifully decorated mantel he suppressed a groan and turned around, meeting the dark, worried glance of d’Artagnan. His eyes shone clear and bright, the fire being reflected in them and spotlighting his whole visage with a warm glow. “I’m glad I was wrong. Believing means nothing,…”

“… seeing means knowing,” D’Artagnan finished and smiled. “See, your lectures are yielding fruits.”

“I have no doubt they do,” Athos staggered back towards the second settee facing the first and sank down.

“You are hurt,” d’Artagnan acknowledged, and his eyes were resting unblinkingly on his mentor’s tired figure.

“Merely a scratch,” Athos replied, whereupon d’Artagnan chuckled.

“Sure,”he answered and closed his eyes.

“Don’t!” Athos ordered gruffly.

“Don’ wha’?” d’Artagnan’s voice was slurring again and he blinked his eyes open with much difficulties.

“Sleep. Don’t sleep,” Athos leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me what happened!”

There was a short pause and Athos could watch the young Gascon collect his thoughts, before he replied tiredly. “You fell.”

“We’ve already established that. What happened afterwards?”

“I walked. A lot. I found… I… I don’t exactly rememb’r actually but I rememb’r you scolding me. Lecturing me to keep my head ov’r heart.”

“Good to hear you actually do listen every once in a while.”

“Hey!” d’Artagnan protested but it was only half-hearted and Athos knew him well enough to read between the lines. _Keep up the banter. It feels like home._ “Anyway, I found… the vault. And Marie! I found Marie.” At that, he actually shot up, trying to get up with his eyes round as saucers. “The girl, oh God, Athos. I sent the girl to…”

Athos was already at his side and gently but firmly pushed him back into a sitting position.

“d’Artagnan!” He bellowed angrily. “You’re in no condition to get up.”

“But, you don’t understand…”

“Stay put and tell me then!”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was told, falling against the back rest. “There was a little girl, Marie. She was taken by the wolves but she hid down there. I … I helped her through the trapdoor and told her to run and warn everyone.”  He paused, torment in his eyes and Athos understood.

“I am sure she is fine, d’Artagnan,” he tried to calm him down and instead tried to avert his attention. “Down there, you mentioned a man.”

“I did?”

“A man, who let the wolves loose, remember?”

“Oh.” d’Artagnan’s face twisted into mixture of perplexion and embarrassment. “Right! The man. One of the King’s courtiers, I think. I remember him. He has a bad limp and his leg is… I think… steadied by a metallic… frame. He … squeaks,” He added with an apologetic glance and Athos nodded in understanding.

“I know that man,” Athos frowned. “He is the son of the Duke of Orlean, who has fallen from the King’s grace some time ago. It had gotten quiet around him.” His mind was racing at this new development. A man from the King’s personal entourage. That would definitely be a scandal of hitherto unknown proportions. Heart suddenly heavy with apprehension he sighed and rubbed his tired eyes before turning back towards d’Artagnan.

“Do you have proof?”

“Proof? What do we need proof for? I’ve seen him. I’nt that enough? He has power over them. Prob’bly trained and fed them like dogs t’make them do his bidding.” D’Artagnan’s thoughts were now trickling out of him, slowly and deliberately, as if he had to string them on a leather band before letting them tumble out of his mouth. His eyes were slowly closing again and Athos was afraid of touching him, dreading the heat of the cursed fever that he knew he would find. Until once more, a random thought made d’Artagnan jerk awake and he clumsily began patting against his chest and under his doublet. “Oh, and I found this on the dead beast.”

He produced something from an inside pocket and held it out for Athos. It was fine piece of cloth, delicately sewn and with a very familiar pattern of three blue lines on a silver background. Part of the Duke’s crest as Athos recalled darkly and he crumpled it up, letting it disappear in his own doublet.

“You did well, d’Artagnan. Rest now!”

The Gascon didn’t have to be told twice as his eyes slipped shut and his head slowly lolled to the side.

\---

Leaving Athos and d’Artagnan behind believing them to be safe, Porthos and Aramis found themselves back in the long hallway, which was connecting most of the rooms this side of the palace. They almost stumbled against a fellow Musketeer on their hurried flight towards the centre of the happenings where – surrounded by half a dozen Musketeers and members of the Red Guard – one of the beasts was being stalemated against one of the large double doors leading into the ballroom. In steady rotation, two men were attacking the beast with their swords, coming from opposite directions.

It wasn’t hard to see that the animal was tiring as it kept biting into nothingness, always a little behind the attacking party. It emitted an angry wail as it stood on its hind legs, rowing its front paws aimlessly. Losing its footing it crashed against the door, rattling the frame just as the rumble-pots in the ballroom introduced a new theme, inviting enthusiastically to a new round of dance. A cheerful _Galliard_ began behind closed doors with tambourines setting a lively pace interrupted by whooping calls of women being tossed into the air and getting back on their feet while this side of the door people were fighting for life and death.

Porthos really hoped though, that no one had the poor idea of opening that door.

“Aramis! Porthos!” Treville’s voice boomed and among the fighting men Porthos recognized Treville, who distanced himself from the group and came running towards them.

“It’s past eight! You are late!” Treville bellowed but it sounded more anticipating than angry. ”Report!”

“We found d’Artagnan!” Porthos replied quickly, Treville’s face growing guarded.

“Alive!” Aramis added. “But not for long if he doesn’t receive medical attention.”

“Athos?”

Porthos lowered his eyes in guilt, leaving Aramis the burden to speak. The medic, though, had at least the decency to look chastised. “With d’Artagnan.”

“Of course he is,” Treville scowled. “Remind me to give all of you a lecture about following orders once this whole mess is over. Right now we have bigger problems.” His arm pointed towards their right. “Two of them. I sent some men after the other one. The doors to the ballroom are all closed but the stairs to the ballroom’s balcony are open. This is their greatest chance of breach. You may not let that thing get inside! Understood?”

“Ay, Captain,” Porthos bellowed, already running into the direction Treville had pointed. Rounding a corner, they soon found the second group of men. Unfortunately, this particular animal exhibited more stamina and fervor and did not seem intimidated by the continuing assault.

Warily, five men were circling around the large beast, trying to reach it with their swords but they didn’t dare getting too close as it was constantly snapping at every one who dared to come closer. Porthos’ glance fell on two men of the Red Guard who were kneeling over the body of one of their comrade. Considering the large puddle of blood spreading on the precious carpet Porthos doubted there was much to do for his poor soul. Which, of course, didn’t stop Aramis from crossing the distance to the injured in a few steps. Porthos didn’t waste more time and entered the melee with a loud growl that even made the wolf raise its head in short-lived distraction. Someone took his chance with his sword and was rewarded with a loud howling sound of pain, which unfortunately merely prompted the beast to manage a powerful jump, breaking through the human barrier and downing the nearest men with yells of surprise.

It crashed against the opposite wall, ripped down a beautiful piece of tapestry and quickly gained speed as it ran off only to be halted by a dead end. Right and left, all the doors were closed except…

“Shit!” Porthos knew what would happen before the animal made its move. A large archway led upstairs to the balcony, overlooking the ballroom. The wolf took its chance and fled through the wide arch and up the stairs.

\---

There was a distinct difference between patience and endurance and if anyone had bothered to ask Constance Bonacieux what that difference was, she quickly would have prepared to give a fitting reply by telling that person to stick the answer where no one would ever look for it.  Because right now, she had neither.

Her head was swimming and her feet were aching. Her corset was literally pressing the life out of her, preventing her from taking a much-needed breath.

All of this, all the people around her, were suffocating her. Their excessively loud voices trying to dominate each other, a petty display of frivolity and ignorance while the people not protected by guards and thick walls were being slaughtered and living in constant fear. A shrill laughter – unladylike and almost obscene – made her wince and the pain in her head spiked for a second.

She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrated on taking slow, shallow breaths before opening her eyes and put on a brave façade of modest courteousness as well as guarded indifference. She had tried to master the skill of getting invisible when in the presence of large crowds of important men by keeping her eyes lowered and her hands modestly clasped in front of her stomach. Of course, she was failing spectacularly. Whether it was because of her inability to not look at her surroundings with a healthy dose of suspiciousness or her way of speaking her mind was secondary.

Instead, what she had managed to master so far was the remarkable ability to invent new insults when talking about the pompous wanna-bes that occupied the Court. Names that usually made the Queen blush or giggle in delight, depending on how much privacy they were enjoying in the particular moment.

So, if she’d had the breath to do so, she would have told the man in front of her what exactly she thought about his pretentious attempts of getting her to marvel in delight at his use of big words like e _fficiency_ and _trade embargo_.

She felt the eyes of the Queen on her and knew what the other woman would advise her to do. She had her part to play, her charm to spread and her pawn to move. Easy for her to say. She was the Queen after all. But Constance was just a commoner with nothing to her name but a husband who, among other things, sold undergarments to overweight wealthy man.

Once, she had been content in her role of being a wife. Of cooking dinners and keeping her husband’s clothes clean. Until that day on the market. That blasted day when a certain Gascon had fallen at her feet. And even though she had caught him, she had fallen _for_ him. Like a tornado he had picked her up and her life had been turned upside down.

She used to be obedient until a spark of something new had started a fire in her heart that burned hot, scorching everything she had believed to be right and fair.

She used to have a place and an obligation, but now there was a whole new world of dreams and hopes mocking her with _what if_ s and _what could have been_ s.

But now, confronted with all the things she could not have, her devotion was crumbling.

Oh, what a hypocrite she was.

In telling d’Artagnan to stay away from her, she had seen her only chance to stop the downwards spiral that her life had turned into. A downwards spiral that, measured by the feelings of love and euphoria when in the company of another man, should have been the ultimate goal for her pursuit of happiness.

In the end, it was totally his fault (and she told herself so almost every second of the day) she had felt the need to take on the calling of becoming the Queen’s confidante just to escape the misery her life had become and keep her face on the run. Which, of course, was just another strategy of her mind to justify her inner conflict where there should only be said obedience and devotion.

“… not feeling well?” The man in front of her wanted to know in a voice that was expressing more annoyance than worry.

“Uuuhm,” Oh yes, her wit was on another soaring flight of intellect again. “Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.” She managed a forced smile and produced a rather melodramatic sigh, fanning air at herself. “I think I just a little bit fresh air. There is a lot hot air in here, is it not?”

Without waiting for an answer she dropped a rather hasty curtsy and moved away. She wasn’t really supposed to leave her position near the Queen but the constant movement around her was making her dizzy. Anyway, she wasn’t the only court lady on standby and rather preferred to not face plant next to the royal couple and thereby cause a disgrace for herself as well as for the King and Queen. The undulating of the dancing women’s dresses was turning the whole ballroom into an ocean and the live orechstra’s wonderful musical input – as beautiful it would have been in another setting – was now responsible for quickening her pulse. The crowd was slow in letting her pass and she had to meander through the countless people- “Sorry! Excuse me! Would you…?” - smelling of powder and strong perfumes and sweat and arrogance.

She stopped in her tracks, listening, as she heard someone scream. The sound only a heartbeat later drowned out by another eruption of laughter and delight from a crowd of some ladies-in-waiting. Regaining her path towards one of large doors she neared the entrance when she recognized Captain Treville talking agitatedly with two Musketeers in the hallway. Another two were hurriedly running off, obviously having gotten instructions by Treville. She had enough experience with men and Musketeers in particular to know that their tension wasn’t solely chalked up to their task of keeping guard. Something was going on. Her fear was confirmed when her eyes met Treville’s and she recognized something beyond his usual competence and stalwart composure.

Something she didn’t expect. Not here and not now.

Guilt.

A frightening thought came to her mind and it struck her what it was, that had been lying foul on her stomach all evening. She had merely shrugged it off as too little sleep and a headache. But now she wondered why she hadn’t realized it any earlier. It was so obvious. She had seen the men, the Musketeers, standing guard on every corner, every entrance, taking discreet routes circling the large room. But no sign of Athos, Aramis, Porthos or d’Artagnan.

She knew Treville deemed them as some of his best. They should have been here, on the first line of defense. If they weren’t…

Treville must have seen something in her countenance that betrayed her sudden distress as he walked straight towards her, pulling her aside with a firm grip on her elbow.

“What is going on?” She asked, her voice strained. “Where are Athos and…”

“Constance,” he cut her short. “No time for explanation. My men have the orders to get the king and queen to safety but I’m afraid it’s too late. We need to close the doors. Now. What we need the least now is for the guests to panic.”

All in all, four large doors were leading in and out of the large ball room, one to every cardinal point and as she looked at them frowning she found them being shut, one by one, slowly but deliberately.

“Safe from what?” She pressed on stubbornly.

“Intruders,” Treville merely replied, already moving away from her to slip through the open door back into the hallway before it was being closed by a stocky man in musketeer uniform. With three quick strides she walked towards him.

“Capaut!”

“Madame Bonacieux,” the man greeted her, obviously unhappy about being distracted. “Please, Madame, you need to get away from the door.”

She positioned herself next to him facing the ballroom watching the crowd, and instinctively gathered a neutral stance, feigning highly exaggerated interest in one of the knight’s armors standing next to each entryway of the ballroom. The metal shining and the lance decoratively polished and glinting. She even managed a tight smile, nodding at a passing nobleman with more powder on his nose than one his wig.

“No chance,” she hissed at Capaut. ”Tell me what’s going on! Where are Athos and the others?”

From the corner of her eyes she saw him flinch, causing her heart to stumble.

“I don’t know,” Capaut said through clenched teeth. “Please, Madame, you have to…”

Another yell, much closer now, muffled behind the closed door and this time it was unmistakably the sound of someone in fear, not in rapture. Seconds later, something crashed against the door from the outside, shaking the frame forcefully and Constance whirled around. Some of the close bystanders looked at them suspiciously but quickly turned back to their pointless conversation and shallow gossiping. The constant noise in the ballroom accompanied by the quick jumps of a cheerful _Gavotte_ was too loud for a single scream and the rattling of a door to divert their attention and Constance realized that was the only way to avoid a panic.

She waved at them and forced herself to stay close to the door, trying to somehow make the impression of normalcy whereas her fingers were itching to rip the lance from its holding to be prepared for whatever it was that attempted to get through the door. Her lips frozen in a painful smile, she clenched through her teeth:  “Capaut, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what’s going on I will not hesitate to make a scene myself.”

He anwered quietly, eyeing the bystanders, obviously trying not to attract attention. “They’re here,” Capaut replied, face hard and motionless.

“Who?”

“The beasts!”

Right on cue, another crash made the door tremble, followed by a deep growl and the yells of men shouting muffled orders at each other. But Constance could not _not_ unhear it, as she strained her ears, torn between panic and the knowledge that hysteria would be fatal in this room full of weak-hearted imbeciles.

She had a King and a Queen to protect. And ultimately the whole baaing herd of sheep milling around them.

So she stood her ground and smiled, acting as if nothing was wrong, counting on Treville and his men to save the day, trying not to think too much about the implications of certain four men’s absence.

\---

For a few moments, Athos just sat next to him, watching his chest heaving with every rattling breath. But he could work with that. D’Artagnan was alive and he would make it through this night as well as the next. He would make it through many decades as long as Athos was having a say in that matter. Aramis might be their medic but d’Artagnan was their survivor.

The fire was still crackling gaily, providing a comfort that only a few hours ago Athos wouldn’t have been able to appreciate. Exhaustion and the sudden drop of adrenaline lulled him into a feeling of safety. Moving a little to the side he carefully pulled d’Artagnan into a lying position with his head in his lap, the half-asleep man complying with a murmured indignation of “ _’m fine”_. The heat, the muffled sounds and his own weakened body and mind where slowly pulling him under and a curse of vertigo sent his awareness overboard as his body shut down. His consciousness fled, his bodily needs taking over and he sank into oblivion, in which his dreams were chasing him. Wolves were turning into monsters, monsters turning into men and men turning into metal frames, squeaking consistently.

_IIiikk phhht._

His heart rate was almost toppling over, the hand that was still resting against d’Artagnan’s scalp started to twitch, as the sqeaking continued to pull him from his state of dream into a limbo between wakefulness and sleep until a clear sound yanked him forcefully back to the living.

_IIiikk phhht._

His eyes shot open and for a moment, he had no idea where he he was until his eyes fell on the sleeping d’Artagnan and the merrily dancing fire which was still blazing, meaning he couldn’t have been asleep for a long time.

He could feel the _thump thump_ of his too fast heart fluttering like the wings of a frightened bird against his collarbone with its intensity and wrecked his brain for the source of his panic.

He came up with the answer as behind him a tiny sensation of  _IIikk_ was accompanied by the sound of a gun being cocked.

\---

The music was beautiful.

In the Court there was music, too, but the occasions rare and less fancy. Rickety fiddles providing a simple melody, off-key singing and boisterous guffaws. Banging against pots and cans and sometimes even a brass that was more or less skillfully played when the evening got late and the cheap wine was plenty. It was neither beautiful nor graceful but it was the only thing she’d ever known.

As she was sitting in the dark chamber, she was positive she had never heard anything more beautiful than the melodies nor anything more repugnant than the laughter of those elegant _madams_. She tried to think of something else, tried to think of her brother and imagined how she would tell him about her silly little adventure.

He would go green with envy and would call her an idiot for the chances she had missed even sitting in this tiny chamber. The silver cutlery just in reach, the polished candleholders in her back.  She couldn’t even eat the god forsaken apple in her hand. Even the thought of eating made her sick. Instead, she held the apple tight, kept herself grounded as she listened intently for something terrible to happen. However all the other sounds that might have told her what was going on were drowned out by the sound of that boisterous entertainment going on.

She didn’t want to hear anymore. Wanted the responsibility of her back and to be in her dirty little corner of the Court. Pressing her hands against her ears, she closed her eyes and started to hum, the notes coming in a breathless little tune. They sent a tiny burst of hope through her exhausted mind as it reminded her of home. The way the song only being sung behind closed doors and when no one was listening.

“ _The King of France went up the Hill,_

_With forty thousand men;_

_The King of France came down the Hill_

_And ne’er went up again._ ”

Flinching, she sank deeper against the wooden cabinet doors as the unmistakable sound of claws against stone sounded right in front of her safe retreat, accompanied by a shout of surprise, probably made by the kind redhead. If it hadn’t been for him, she probably would already be half-way enroute to the _Châtelet_.

The young Musketeer let out another surprised yell and Marie increased the pressure against her ears until it hurt. Yet, curiosity finally got the better of her. Slowly, she leaned towards the door to peek through the small slit between door and frame but except for quick movements and the bright lights from the countless candelabras hanging from the ceiling she could not see what was going on. Pulling herself together, she slowly opened the door.

Just in front of the door was one of the beasts and behind it stood the young Musketeer, terror masking his kind face and turning his movements erratic. He stumbled, having reached the end of the hallway and Marie knew he had no other way to go. The wall in his back, the beast in front of him and at his side the drop, a way too long down to land safely without at least two broken legs, maybe worse. The sword in his hand looked like a mere toy in the face of the behemoth.

She did not want to look but neither could she take her eyes of him, the way he steadied suddenly as if gathering all his courage in one solid moment of clear thinking and he actually took a step ahead, wielding his sword with a grim expression of someone who had nothing to lose. There was a pang of regret in her heart for the inevitable death of the young man who had shown her kindness and believed her. And she would be doomed to watch it play out right in front of her.

The idea didn’t even form consciously in her mind before she pushed the door wide open and her arm performed the action that would literally save the young Musketeer’s life as well as everyone else’s in this ballroom.

She threw the apple and the edible missile described a soft curve before thudding against the beast’s hip. It sure hadn’t hurt the animal, Marie was surprised it had even felt the impact as she hadn’t thrown with a lot power, but it was enough to confuse the animal for just the blink of an eye. It turned its head, losing sight of the young Musketeer who quickly sidestepped trying to get past the beast and was now moving with an odd, yet purposeful agility that surprised Marie. With all the wonder that only children could muster, she thought _Maybe Musketeers really can fly_.

His sword found the animal’s neck and it growled in annoyance. Its massive body was almost vibrating with aggression. The attack was rushed and quick and time stood still as Marie watched the beast launch itself at the Musketeer. He crashed against the banister, the wood splintering under the impact and Marie lost sight of him as he fell. She could hear his body slam onto the ground and she almost sobbed with terror, throwing both her hands up to muffle the sounds of her shock. Fortunately, the animal didn’t hear her as it stood near the edge, almost majestetically, and its huge head roamed over the large crowd beneath before stretching it towards the ceiling and producing an ear-splitting howl reverberating through the ballroom. The subsequent silence was deafening. The music bled out with an ugly succession of random notes before a deathly silence filled the ball room.

The wolf positioned itself close to the edge, hunched its back – and jumped into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The King of France went up the Hill,  
> With forty thousand men;  
> The King of France came down the Hill  
> And ne’er went up again.”  
> Lovely French nursery rhyme, probably from around the 12th century. The kids could probably sleep really peacefully afterwards.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter after this one but I'm having a hard time writing do. I'm great with the hurting but the comforting feels awkward. How do you guys do it without getting all kitschy? Argh! Anyway, usual disclaimer. Not mine.

The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.

\---

Charles Bukowski

\---

 

In the moment of collision Gaëtan let go of his sword, trying instinctively to protect his face from the animal’s teeth. His lower back painfully crashed against the banister and he could feel it splinter and break apart. While he fell, his only thought was to _please, let my death be quick and without pain_. Fortunately, he did not get his wish. On the contrary. His landing – though very startling and definitely painful as his back protested and his breath was forcefully expelled from his lungs – felt almost cushioned. Something soft and squishy. The smell of something sweet and fruity filled his nose and the wetness beneath him felt cold and sticky and slightly acidic.

He had managed to fall into a huge arrangement of fruits, Gaëtan quickly combined. And yet, the short relief didn’t last as movement above him made him look up, where the animal was hovering close to the edge and looking at the crowd like it was looking forward to a proper meal. It produced a terrifying howl which ebbed out into a tense silence.

“Gaëtan!”

He turned his head, where – to his surprise – Madame Bonacieux came running towards him, holding a large lance in front of her and unceremoniously pushing noble men and women out of the way. “Catch!” she yelled when she was only a few feet away from him. The long weapon flew his way and he caught it skillfully with both his hands as he rolled himself out of his soft bed. Almost elegantly, he landed on his feet between a large bowl of grapes and a sugar coated cake with a fine arrangement of cherries on top and kneeled on one leg to create a stance as flexible and steady as possible. Gripping the handle firmly with both hands – one above his head and one the height of his shin – he aligned the weaponuntil the tip pointed upwards.

That’s when the beast made its move.

\---

Treville should have known things were too easy. Should have known that fate always had a rabbit to pull out of some poor soul’s hat.

They had managed to tire the wolf out, eventually bringing it down with a few well-aimed sword strikes. The smoothness should have aroused his suspicion but Treville had merely ordered his man to get rid of the carcass as quietly and quickly as possible, even daring to feel hope as he watched his men drag it away from the door with combined effort. He was about to follow into the direction he had sent Porthos and Aramis when the howling erupted from within the ballroom and with a sudden explosion of clarity he realized he had failed. His men had failed. The beast was now wreaking havoc in a room packed with France’s influential circle.

“No…” he groaned and hastened towards the door, ripping it open to find himself faced with a wall of backs.

“What…” Treville began but he did not get any further as he was distracted by a sight that would forever  be etched in his memory as the moment that could have changed the fate of France.

Everything happened in such a short span of time that he hadn’t even proper time to work out the _How’s_ and _Why’s_. The animal jumped from the balcony directly at Gaëtan. The young Musketeer had just performed an almost elegant full body rotation from his position on top of a huge arrangement of fruits, which was not an easy treat with his lanky stature and simultaneously caught a lance, which had come flying from somewhere Treville couldn’t see. He kneeled on the table among trays of food, his head bowed and lance held upright in front of him as if he was praying.

All of it happening in one smooth motion like a well-practiced element of routine practice. Almost like a piece of dance.

The young Musketeer’s position was elevated enough that he was visible from every corner of the room. Of course, every eye _was_ directed at him in that moment.

\---

Gaëtan crouched, still holding the lance upright with all the strength he could muster and hoped for the best.

Beneath his iron grip, Gaëtan could feel the lance bear the brunt of the impact, the beast impaling itself on the weapon with a howling that was immediately cut short as the sheath sliced through skin, tendons, flesh and bone. A gush of blood ran down the handle but Gaëtan held on.

What followed was another bout of silence as complete as if the whole room had been void of life.

The only thing Gaëtan could hear was his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. Blinking his eyes open, he looked up and found the beast’s head skewered on the lance, saliva still dripping obscenely from the huge fangs and onto the fruits.

\----

The sight was both ghastly and awe-inspiring as the animal - to everyone’s surprise and horror - jumped and impaled itself with such momentum on the lance that the sheath went completely through its neck, protruding at the top of its head like a bloody crown.

It was dead within a heartbeat and in the stunned silence of the room Treville could hear not a few ladies sigh dramatically and sink to the floor, accompanied by the surprised cries of their male escorts.

Eventually, a murmur started to arise, highlighted by calls of “What is this nonsense?” and “What is the meaning of all this?” Until somewhere, someone started to clap. A slow and steady clapping that suggested approval. More people chimed in and soon the whole room was an explosion of frenzied applause and cries of appreciation and wonder and amazement.

And just like that, Treville’s heart started beating again. His eyes found Porthos, who had appeared on the balcony looking down in bewilderment.

“What a delightful performance,” someone muttered next to him and Treville shook his head, glad for once in his career as the Captain of the Musketeer that most of the King’s devotees were complete morons.

Wiping his hand over his sweaty face, he groaned.

“I’m getting too old for this!”

\---

Athos was not a man of many words. Actually, he wasn’t a man of many anythings.

Watching from the outside Athos was a man who in fact lacked a lot of things. Emotions, one might fathom, as one glance into his eyes revealed nothing but a deep void. Amplitude of motion would come to mind secondary, as the man had no need of much movement to install a reaction. Even his swordplay seemed to be minimal contrary to the damage it caused.

Last but not least, it was the shortage of words that always put him somewhere in the background and made him appear someone who rather kept track of things instead of trying to influence them.

And yet, contrary to first impressions, Athos – former Comte de la Fere – carried a personality more layered than a large onion and its reconnaissance was reserved to those who confronted these layer, day after day, week after week and year after year.

Tragically, the apparent isolation was no innate characteristics per se but a grown defense mechanism created by too many ill strokes of fate and at least one too many bad experiences. Only in the company of his brothers he could slightly let his guard down as it offered a safety net of claps on the back, friendly banter and an inner peace that was more beneficial than the finest of all wine bottles.

Usually.

Sometimes, it backfired spectacularly.

There was a reason why the Inseparables were the Inseparables. Among each other, their congregated layers had been peeled apart, each one of them exposing pieces of their souls to each other without consciously giving it away. It kept them four-times protected against the rest of the world at the risk of being exposed against each other, their defenses falling in each other’s company, their emotions raw and genuine.

One for all and all for One.

But right now this exact innuendo was biting him in the ass and Athos was inwardly cursing his moment of weakness as the small sound of the cocking gun sent goose bumps over his neck.

He had let his guards down quite spectacularly and he and d’Artagnan would pay the price.

“Why?” Athos finally let his voice steal away the expectant silence in the room, eyes still fixed on the fire. The door to the large hallway was still closed and Athos assumed the man had sneaked in through one of the doors leading to the adjacent rooms. With a little luck he would get the man to talk to stall time and, once an opportunity to turn the tables arose, use it well. Or at least not die stupid.

“That is a very vague question, don’t you think?”

The man, the son of the Duke of Orleans, had an irritating voice. Strangely high-pitched and paper thin. Like the metal frame was required to accomplish more than just stop his limbs from falling apart.

“Possibly,” Athos said, still not moving a muscle except for his hand, which performed almost tender strokes against d’Artagnan’s scalp. “That does not mean there is not a very specific answer.”

“You are not wrong. It’s simple, actually,” the man acknowledged casually. “Isn’t it funny how all evil emerges from within the circles that disapprove the loudest? And those who bark the loudest never bite?” Tiny squeaking sounds indicated movement and Athos bowed his head, eyes now fixed on d’Artagnan’s sleeping form, wheezing through slightly parted lips and probably so far gone that he wouldn’t feel anything. That, of course, wasn’t much of a comfort.

Athos wanted to live and he wanted d’Artagnan to live. The rest was negotiable.

“Mark my words, Musketeer,” the Duke’s son sneered. “After tonight, the people will realize where all their misery is coming from. Right from the bowels of their beloved King. And they will rise up to tear out the roots of all evil.”

Athos almost snorted. The only evil that was playing a role in this affair was the man standing behind him and holding him at gunpoint in the most cowardly fashion.

“So, all the mayhem is politics?” Athos stated, carefully making it sound like half a question and half an affirmation.

“Isn’t everything politics?”

“Dead women and children are never politics,” Athos said, this time sharp and accusing.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Death is politics in its purest form. If you want something to change, you have to pave the way with drastic measures.” There was a short pause and Athos closed his eyes, trying to slow his heartbeat. There was the tiniest puff of air ruffling his hair as the man stepped closer until Athos could feel the muzzle against the back of his head.

“Change what? What is it that you hope to gain?”

“I gain nothing of this. I’m a victim myself and I’m acting on behalf of all the people who are fed up with the situation.” The man almost sounded amused. “I give them terror. I offer them devastation and anarchy to show the people that their King is their weakest link. I provide the means for their anger to be justified. And you have to admit, the King cannot even protect himself. How can he hope to protect his people?” He made a soft noise, an almost sad huff before adding: “Sooner or later, the people will rise against the monarchy, against the injustice of it all and they will take what’s due to them.”

There was just a moment’s notice, a slight tremor in the cold metal of the gun, and Athos used it well. With a jerk, he threw himself to the side to get out of the way and provide cover for d’Artagnan as the gun went off, the bullet cutting a hot trench into the air. The crack deafening. His ears ringing and the world tilting for a moment, he ignored the scorching heat at the side of his face and only had a few seconds to enjoy the fact that he had not been shot in the head. _I’m sorry_ he thought, as he forcefully pushed d’Artagnan off his lap and sofa, who tumbled on the floor, while Athos jumped on his feet. The Gascon landed in a heap and groaned, trying to lift himself up on shaking arms. Athos, though, had more pressing matters to resolve and not a second to spare.

He was weaponless, as his sword and musket were still lying uselessly on the marble footrest next to the fireplace. He didn’t dare looking back, afraid of losing precious seconds as he performed a jump that was if not graceful at least effective as he took cover behind the opposite sofa. The high legs of the chair provided a good enough view of the floor area and Athos met d’Artagnan’s gaze as the young man lay slumped on the floor, facing his mentor with feverish but vigilant eyes. There was nothing but trust in his face and Athos heart burst with guilt for leaving him at the man’s mercy. He watched as the man’s feet were slowly dragged over the rug, rounding the sofa, and Athos had no doubt that a second loaded gun was every bit pointed at d’Artagnan.

Looking around, Athos gaze fell on his weapon belt, still too far away to grab it, but with a pang of hope he found just in reach of his arm the long poker he had stirred the embers with. Hoping to be out of sight, he took and carefully maneuvered it under the sofa in front of him and within range of d’Artagnan’s arm. Searching the younger man’s gaze, they understood each other without words and d’Artagnan nodded almost imperceptibly, face growing determined.

“You can’t kill us both with only one bullet left,” Athos growled and slowly broke his cover by getting up and leaving his safe place behind the sofa.

“I am aware of the fact that my physical stature does not imply the best combat skills but believe me when I tell you that I can handle a knife just fine. And this young Musketeer does not look like he will put up much of a struggle once I disposed of you. It’s like stealing a bone of a whelp.”

The gun – until now pointed at d’Artagnan who was making a dramatic effort to turn from his stomach to his back – was swiveled around, now directed at Athos’ chest.

“And my aim is good enough at this distance.”

“Other people have seen you. They will identify you,” Athos stated, his hands half-heartedly on shoulder-height to indicate his capitulation. “You won’t walk away with this,” Athos scowled. “Pun intended.”

To his surprise, the Duke’s son laughed. “I admire your sense of humor, Musketeer.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“Aaww, ever the avid servant, aren’t you? You lot are no better than dogs. Wagging your tails at the naked bones thrown your way. _We,”_ he hissed disgustedly. ”- are the animals, Musketeer. The way we let ourselves be stooped in position, rank and status. All but imaginative creations and meaningless rules by men who want to keep the upper hand. All of it, it makes me sick.”

There was a certain ring to his words morally speaking but even if this had been a friendly chat between friends sitting by the campfire, Athos never would have admitted its validity. It was betrayal of everything Athos believed in. The value of Crown and France and what it stood for.This wasn’t about martyrdom, it was about principles. And in Athos world, one wrong could not be made right by another wrong, despite its admirably aspiration.

“You are wrong,” Athos stated gravely and with a hint of sadness that he couldn’t quiet hide.

“Am I? In what matter exactly?” The man smiled smugly.

At that d’Artagnan made his move. “Not a whelp!” he hissed and with a swiftness that belied the Gascon’s poor health he grabbed the poker from under the sofa and swung it upwards through the air in one wide arc, hitting the gun the very moment the shot went off. Having expected it, Athos jerked sideways, tripped over the footrest and landed heavily on his injured side. For a moment, nothing but blinding pain filled his whole universe and it took him a moment to realize that he really should start breathing again, when d’Artagnan’s breathless voice called him back to reality.

“Ath’s!”

Stumbling to his feet, he took a small detour to grab his sword and staggered towards the two men wrestling awkwardly on the ground. d’Artagnan had obviously managed to knock him over, both man’s bad legs sticking out stiffly and Athos could see that the Gascon in his weakened state had not much energy to spare as he tried to stop the man from reaching for something stuck in his belt.

“Don’t!” Athos ordered coldly, the tip of his sword finding the man’s jugular, hoping the shaking of his hands didn’t diminish his stalwart appearance. The noble man instantly stopped moving which allowed d’Artagnan to roll himself away and land on his back, arms falling to his side heavily and chest heaving. He lay for a few seconds before crawling backwards and bringing as much distance between the noble and himself as possible. He only stopped when his back hit the wall and he let himself fall against it, his eyes closing.

With a loud crash the door crashed open and startled, Athos looked over his shoulder to see Treville, followed by Aramis entering the room.

The scared “No!” of d’Artagnan made him regret his short moment of inattention and the third shot within the last minutes echoed in his ears, the pain in his head spiking.

The noble man’s hand fell to the side, a knife clanging on the parquet and skidding away, a dark hole dominating his forehead before a trickle of blood sluggishly started running out of it and into his hairline.

Athos sighed, consciousness bidding its farewell as blackness started to creep along his field of vision and he had to lean on his sword to prevent himself from falling, distantly noticing Treville mutter something about old age and Aramis crossing the room with a few hurried steps to catch him as his legs gave out.

His eyes still steadfast on d’Artagnan, the last thing he was aware of was his young protégé, tired and at the end of his strength but smiling in a way that said _Not going anywhere_.

Athos’ world tilted and was gone.

\---

Treville had to admit that tonight could have been worse. Much worse. The way the tables had turned all of a sudden was still a mystery to him, but it was one that he most definitely would never question.

It all came down to one simple explanation that was as far-fetched as risky. And he had no doubt that if the King and his enclosed circle of groveling morons hadn’t indulged large quantities of sweet wine the result of this whole disaster would have been quite different.

But for once, luck was playing in his hands and the King had been non the wiser. Clapping his hands on the Captain’s back, the King had been thrilled, congratulating Treville on such a powerful and inspiring performance, which he never would have expected. “Although,” the King had thrown in after Treville had announced that yet another beast had successfully been incapacitated within the confines of the palace and that he didn’t expect any more to disturb their festivity. “I did give the order of receiving the beast’s head on display on the night of the feast, after all. Admittedly, I did not expect the result to be so…”

“Bloody?” the Queen had interjected, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical manner and her countenance still slightly pale. But after a long look at the Captain she winked at him with a half-smile and nodded. “Very impressive, Captain Treville, and of course the young man who so bravely played his role.”

At that, the King looked past Treville’s shoulder at a stunned Gaëtan, shadowed by an uncomfortable-looking Constance, who sheepishly had her eyes lowered to the very fascinating fringes of her ball gown.

 _You have no idea, Your Majesty,_ Treville had thought, wondering if anyone else was able to hear his heart beat.

“Tut? Bloody?” The King had retorted disagreed enthusiastically, grinning like a little boy who had just been promised his own little pony. “No! Dramatic is more like it! Excellent, Treville, excellent!”

Then, of course, he had complained about the ruined fruit arrangement, the broken banister and the puddles of blood dripping down Gaëtan’s soiled uniform.

Following Gaëtan’s spectacular grande entrance everything had happened too fast to allow him to properly process the situation not to mention get behind the meaning of all of this and honestly he was merely trying to keep a handle on the situation and not scream in frustration at the way things had gotten out of his hands so quickly.

After having made arrangements for d’Artagnan and Athos to be transported back into the garrison in the company of Porthos and Aramis, the festivities had resumed without further incidents and Treville had been able to oversee the rest of the night, adrenalin slowly but surly receding until all that was left was a bone-deep exhaustion and a tumultuous whirlwind of thoughts running through his head.

So far he had come to the conclusion that if it hadn’t been for the combined meddling of that little girl,  d’Artagnan and Athos as well as the prompt teamwork of Constance and Gaëtan, things could easily have gotten ugly. The loss of his Captain’s rank and position probably would have been the pettiest of his problems.

Turning half way on his mount, he looked behind at the half a dozen Musketeers men following him through the dark streets of Paris. They had not met anyone, as it was too late for the occasional tavern visitor to find his way home and still too early for the vendor owners to transport their goods to the market.

His gaze fell on Gaëtan and the little girl sitting in front of him on his horse and he sighed, realizing that for him things would probably get more complicated before they would get back to something akin to routine.

“Fell asleep even before we set foot on the Pont Royale,” the young Musketeer observed fondly, adjusting her small frame against his chest, at which the little girl snuggled closer into his embrace. Treville nodded.

They turned into _Rue de Bac_ , the well-lit archway of the garrison coming into sight and Treville’s mount quickened its trot, as if already the smell of soft hay in its nose. A dreadful foreboding made him shudder and he wondered what awaited him in the infirmary.

The short glimpses he had caught of Athos and d’Artagnan hadn’t exactly been reassuring, even though he had been both relieved for d’Artagnan’s not quite safe return and displeased about Athos oh-so-predictable denial to take his orders to stay behind.

And yet, he had them a lot to thank for, provided that they were amenable for it.

Passing through the archway, the clacking of the hooves echoed dully from the stone wall and seconds later they stood in the empty courtyard. No stable boys yet to take over their horses, Treville dismounted and wordlessly handed over his reigns to Capaut, who nodded and led their horses towards the stable. Treville headed towards the infirmary, the softly lit window signaling the presence of at least one wake soul.

He took a deep breath, calming his troubled mind, chiseled his face into his usual mask of stoic indifference and went in. The warmth was immediately pressing and he took off his gloves before pulling his cloak off his shoulders.

“Athos!” he greeted the only Musketeer awake and let his eyes roam over the other sleeping occupants.

The room lay in a cozy twilight and only a handful candles were flickering on the window ledge. Most of the light came from the merrily dancing fire in the fireplace. As expected, he found all of them within the same room in various states of awareness, with Athos being the only one with his eyes wide open.

With a strange sensation of déjà vu that managed to soften his mien,Treville looked at Athos and added: “Good to see you awake, Athos.”

Athos merely nodded. “Told you I’d live.”

“You did,” Treville replied. “I appreciate your ambition.”

 

There was just the hint of amusement in the swordman’s face. Treville’s gaze wandered on to Porthos, once more snoring away on the backmost cots, adjacent to Athos’. The large man had his back turned towards the room while Athos was half-sitting with his back resting against a whole armada of supporting cushions, his chest – except for the thick padding pressed against his side – was a colorful conglomeration of bruises. On the table closest to the window lay d’Artagan flat on his back. His whole body covered by a thin blanked except for his right leg, the grisly wound exposed and open to the world.  Treville had enough medical knowledge to know, that a wound like that could not just be stitched up and he was glad the twilight didn’t allow him to see any details. Instead turned to Athos once more.

“How is he?” He asked quietly.

“Stubborn. Irritating. Diehard.”

Treville scowled and clenched his jaw. He was not in the mood for this.

“Medically speaking.”

Athos shrugged his uninjured shoulder, eyebrows rising. “Stubborn. Irritating. Diehard.” The Musketeer pursed his lips and added. “When we reached the garrison he demanded to see you to give you a full report. Of course, most of it was his fever speaking.”

Treville’s face softened and he shook his head, a sad smile creeping over lips.

“As soon as he is well enough, that’s exactly what I expect from him.”

No _if_ , not even a _when._ Just a plain _as soon as_. Athos nodded, the movement a little too pronounced, before changing the topic rather bluntly.

“The situation at the Palace?”

“Controlled chaos at best,” Treville huffed and rolled his eyes. “The King was immensely pleased with the _performance,_ as he titled it.”

“We did get the short version by Porthos,” Athos explained. “I have to say he did give a nice description of the main points, including Constance’s and Gaëtan’s contribution.”

Treville nodded his affirmation and raked his finger through his short hair. “I have to admit, tonight was not the highlight of my career as Captain of the Musketeers.”

“The King begs to differ…” Athos half-smiled.

Both men fell silent, until Treville eventually cleared his throat.

“What happened in that room? With the Duke’s son? I assume, he his involved?”

Athos face grew guarded. “Are you expecting an official report?”

“Everything is official when it comes to the death of a noble men,” Treville conceded, but then shook his head, rubbing his gritty eyes. “But no, just the short corner stones, please. There’s enough time for the full story later.”

“He was… disturbed,” The swordsman finally concluded. “His intention was to spread fear and terror. He thought…” Athos thought for a moment before continuing. “He thought he could make the people angry enough to start a revolution.”

Treville’s eyesbrow rose. “A revolution? He tried to ignite a revolution by creating monsters?”

“As I said, he was disturbed,” Athos sighed, his body too tired and his mind too worried to think straight.

Treville gave him a sharp look. “I am sure, there’s more than meets the eye and I wish to be properly briefed when the time comes.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Captain.”

There was a soft moan from d’Artagnan and he began to move his head from side to side, his hand twitching under the blankets. At that, Aramis woke with a start and not even fully awake checked his young friend’s forehead.

“We’re here d’Artagnan,” Aramis murmured softly and immediately d’Artagnan stopped fussing.

The medic rubbed his eyes before becoming aware of the Captain’s presence.

“Captain!” he greeted and shook his head, trying to get rid of the last cobwebs in his sleep-deprived head. “How are things in the palace?” he asked but the tone of his voice belied his interest. His eyes were back on d’Artagnan and the wound in his leg. When he started murmuring about having toflush and clean the wound he had probably already forgotten about his question.

“Athos, Porthos, I could use a hand here…” The medic announced quietly, got up and started bustling in the room, collecting water from the heating pot over the fire and clean bandages.

The two addressees rose from their beds without delay, Athos with the help of Porthos and stood next to d’Artagnan, while Treville got out of the way, backing against the door.

Their interplay was almost soundless, their positions on the younger man’s head and feet natural and undisputable, like the fact that the sun rose every morning. They didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge Treville’s presence anymore.

Treville observed stoically the way Aramis wiped the sweat off d’Artagnan’s forehead, the feverish eyes now open and unblinkingly staring up at Athos, who was leaning over him, whispering unheard words into the young man’s ear. An almost intimate picture that woke apprehension but also a profound admiration in Treville. It was his cue to silently retreat, knowing quiet well that his presence was not needed for this while inwardly dreading what was to come now.

He almost fled the room, closing the door behind him before crossing the courtyard with large steps, unconsciously trying to get as much space as possible between himself and the infirmary. He had barely reached the stairs leading towards his office when d’Artagnan’s pained cry ripped through the early morning hours and Treville flinched. He stood, hand on the banister to steady himself before he heavily sat down on the wooden steps, his strength suddenly fleeting treacherously. The pained cry had turned into a muffled sob, then silence.

The threat against France might have been halted but the fight for that one life only just begun. And if it turned out to be of no avail he didn’t want to know the repercussions.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a little late but I wanted to post the last chapter AND the prologue. As usual, this work has not been beta'd. Let me know if you find any mistakes. If you don't find any you're not watching hard enough. This last chapter was a b*tch, by the way. Stubborn as a mule. I baited it with sugar. Lotsnlots of sugar.
> 
> Thanks for sticking to the story. Thanks for reading and commenting and kudoing (is that even a word?).

We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.  
\---

ltaire

\---

 

After having been briefed (more or less truthfully), the King had insisted about the story of the Duke’s son and his drilled animals to be withheld from the public. There had been merely the public announcement that no more threats were to be expected.

It took a few days but not long before the streets filled once more with folk going after their own business. 

Children playing hide and seek while mangy dogs were fighting ambitiously over left over bones, women tattling to their neighbors while their little ones were chewing on wooden pegs that kept falling down and men gloating loudly over whatever it was that their wives had strictly told them not to do in the first place.

In the grand scheme of things: same old, same old.

But if there was one thing one could count on then it was the fact that secrets would not stay secrets.

So while Paris’ heartbeat slowly regained its lively stroke the wildest rumors had begun circulating.

A Musketeer, strong as a bears, had wrestled with four beasts at the same time, they said. He had ripped their hearts out with his hands and had hung them from the chandeliers, they said. His only weapon had been a fork from the King’s collection of cutlery, they said. Strangely enough, the last statement was more common within the walls of The Court where a little girl called Marie produced a marvelous piece of gleaming silver fork every time she had to retell the story.

Meanwhile, the reason for all the dramatic hero talk was just being snatched at by his own horseafter returning from a two day mission while trying to unsaddle it.He squeakedin surprise und stumbled backwards over a water fill bucket. The inevitable happened and the young red head fell on his butt, the water spewing all over his breeches.

Capaut merely shook his head, sighed and ignored the mumbled apologies of his youngest team member. Gaëtan might be a clumsy fellow but he was still _their_ clumsy fellow. And he was a hero.

He left the stables and walked out into the courtyard, where he had to evade two flying knifes as well as the almost somersault of a young Musketeer who was being leveraged over another man’s shoulder in a bold element of hand-to-hand combat. Today’s training was in full progress and he looked up, fully expecting the Captain to oversee the tumultuous sessions but to his surprise, the Captain’s usual lookout was void and the door to his office was closed, indicating that he was either out and about or in his office, entertaining visitors.

His glance wandered towards the infirmary and something heavy lodged in his stomach. He had avoided these rooms of the garrison during the last days, knowing quiet well, that within its wall the world had not yet righted itself. The young man’s cries day and night like whiplashes against their collective backs. Hushed whispersaccompanied by stolenglances towards the ever lit window, the coming and going of the King’s personal physician, who had looked graver and graver with every single visit and Capaut didn’t want to ask for news, feeling like he would jinx their Status Quo. D’Artagnan was still alive, after all. And as long as he was, there was hope.

The window was dark.

“Capaut?” Someone was touching his shoulder and he turned to see Gaëtan looking at him expectantly, following his gaze. “Are you well?”

“Of course!” he answered gruffly, taking in Gaëtan’s sodden figure. There were puddles forming under his shoes where the water from the bucket was dripping from his breeches. “Go. Change! You’ll catch your death in that cold. I’ll take care of the documents.”

Gaëtan nodded and with one last considerate glance at him strode off, waddling awkwardly from either a sore butt or the uncomfortable sensation of having his clothes clinging wetly to his skin. Capaut waited another minute before he started walking towards the stairs and climbed up, waiting in front of the office door another minute before finding the courage to knock. He waited for what felt like an eternity until he heard a curtly bellowed “Come in!” and opened the door.

“You’re back.” Treville stated the obvious,sitting behind his table, one hand wrapped around a glass. On a chair in the front sat – with his back to Capaut – Athos, with his head low and his unusually shaggy hair hiding his features. When Capaut didn’t reply immediately Athos turned to him questioningly, one eyebrow raised.

“We are, Captain,” Capaut said, feeling like he had walked into an intense argument that wasn’t necessarily carried with words. “The documents, Captain. Mission was successful. Nothing remarkable to report.”

Usually, this would have been the Captain’s part to insist on a full report, no matter how dull. Instead, he nodded distractedly, his grey eyes still on Athos while he didn’t even spare any further glance at Capaut. “Thank you, Capaut. Dismissed.”

Capaut quickly closed the door behind him and left the two somber men in their misery. Unsure whether he wanted to know the reason behind their mood he went back into the courtyard, realizing that their horses were already properly attended to and of his four-member team, two were already hunched on a bench, a bowl of delicious smelling stew in front of them, shoveling it inside their mouths like they hadn’t eaten for days.

“We’ve been gone for two days,” Capaut scoffed and rolled his eyes. “And we’ve had plenty food.”

Serge, who was just coming out of the kitchen, put yet another bowl on the table.

Grateful, Capaut sat down and started stirring his food, calling out to their chef before the old man could disappear in his kitchen.

“Serge!” The old man turned, watching him expectantly until Capaut dipped his head towards in the direction of the infirmary. “How does he fare?”

Serge shrugged and heaved a sigh before he answered. Capaut regretted his question already. Next to him, his comrades had halted, spoons dripping hot soup on the table.

“No change, ‘m afraid.” Serge mumbled gruffly. “The physician recommended bloodletting, followed by the a priest, just in case...“ He lowered his voice “Aramis and Athos voiced their… concerns on that matter… or both matters. Loudly! T’was’nt not a nice conversation. Got kicked out of the infirmary, them both.” Serge shook his head.

“Kicked out? They can’t get kicked out of the infirmary,” Capaut declared, bemused.

“What do I know? A’ve just seen Aramis storm outta here and run off like the devil was on his heels. Then Athos disappeared in the Captain’s office. Has been sitting there since morning.”

“Who’s with the lad now?”

“Porthos and the physician, I suppose,” Serge answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Now eat! I di’n’t cook to have it go cold.”

“Thanks.” Absentmindedly, Capaut returned to his meal, still hot and delicious, but he was having a hard time enjoying it. It felt like a bad omen to have the four Inseparables separated, now of all times.

Quickly and without much gusto, he finished his meal and stood, intent on keeping at least Porthos company, as long as the others were unaccounted for. But the calling of his name stopped him and as he turned a familiar woman was standing slightly forlorn under the archway leading into the _Rue de Bac._

“Madame Bonacieux,” he greeted her in surprise, knowing that his intention was getting revised on the fly.

\---

The room was silent, not even the crackling of a fire. It had burned down to a sorry wasteland of ailing embers. The warmth – Aramis had pointed out – not exactly beneficial for the feverish Gascon, so they had decided to let it burn low, just enough to keep the chill out.

Porthos sat shivering on a chair next to his youngest friend, head leaning heavy against his arm, which was resting next to the d’Artagnan’s healing thigh. To everyone’s surprise, the washing and redressing of the wound had shown improvements and after three days Aramis felt confident to stitch the several gaping wounds up without having to fear that he’d have to reopen them at a later point.

But the damage had been done and the infection had run amok within the young man’s body, causing him to shake and twitch until his joints and hands were stiff and his lips and tongue were bleeding from the constant shattering of his teeth. All they could do was trying to stop him from harming himself even further as they soothed him with murmured words of consolation and cold cloths to cool his ever burning limbs. Arm and legs. Torso and neck. Forcing liquids between his cracked lips. At first, spoonful by spoonful, then drip by drip.

They had taken turns, had done everything humanly possible to counteract the infection but nothing had made any impact, at least not when it came to the fire in his veins. d’Artagnan kept burning, slowly slipping away from them. Growing quieter and weaker by the hour. Hadn’t regained consciousness for two days now.

No more movement. No restless searching of his eyes behind closed lids, no shaking. Just a random twitching motion of his fingers every once in a while and the slow raising and falling of his chest. Stubbornly clinging to what was left of his maltreated body functions.

Porthos’ hand was firmly wrapped around d’Artagnan’s fingers, while on the other side one arm was protruding over the edge of the table, a small rivulet of thick, red blood slowly cleaving its path along his dark skin to “draw the poisonous source of the illness out” as the physician had claimed. The bloody trail ended in a strangely twisted loop on his little finger from where it was dripping soundly on a large plate. 

“That will do for now,“ the physician, a haggard old man with thin white hair that let gleam through the mole covered scalp noted and bent d’Artagnan’s arm, pressing a thick bandage against the small cut in the crook of his arm.

Porthos looked up but did not react otherwise. Just made sure of the rising and falling of d’Artagnan’s chest, willing it to go on.

“Will it ‘elp?” He finally asked, still not looking at the old man.

“This will be God’s decision to make,” The old man replied in a tone that was both antagonistic and cordial.

Porthos bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the man, who was after all only just doing his job. Even though Aramis would possibly disagree. But Aramis wasn’t here.

Porthos uttered an unintelligible reply, clasping d’Artagnan’s finger once more and felt his heart constrict at the lack of reaction.

“The priest should be here soon,” the physician announced with barely concealed reluctance and Porthos couldn’t hold it against him, considering how Athos and Aramis had reacted a few hours before. Couldn’t even object.

Accompanied by clattering and shuffling noises the physician packed away his instruments and after another quick glance at his patient, which Porthos rather felt than actually saw, he left the infirmary, leaving Porthos behind with the grave foreboding that his service wouldn’t be needed anymore.

Feeling cold and alone and utterly helpless Porthos once more let his head sink, his forehead touching the hot, dry skin of d’Artagnan’s arm. But the sensation of it felt too wrong so he looked up again, his eyes falling on the smudges of blood, that now marred the young man’s right arm. Suddenly restless, he got up  and went about to clean the arm properly, feeling his tension dissuade slightly as he restarted wiping down d’Artagnan’s body with clean, lukewarm water, taking extra time to clean his face and get the most filth and grime out of his hair. It was a strangely soothing procession and Porthos didn’t even realize when the door opened and someone entered, watching his careful ministration.

“How is he?”

Porthos jumped and almost let the washing pan fall as he looked up.

“Constance!” He exclaimed. “What ya’re doing ‘ere?” Immediately realizing how silly the question was. “No need ta answer that. Sorry, I’ll just…” He quickly finished drying d’Artagnan up, before covering him once more with a light blanket, making sure that the wound on his thigh as well as the fresh cut in his arm was out of view. Constance, though, didn’t move, didn’t evade her eyes. Just watched in silent reverie his doings.

“’e’s…” Porthos began, feeling unexpectedly out of place as Constance’s grim expression chilled the room even further.

Constance didn’t seem fazed by his failure of a reply. Her eyes were glued on d’Artagnan and without blinking she declared placidly. “I need a minute.”

She seemed steadfast in her demeanor, strong and iron-willed and Porthos could only nod. With one last look at d’Artagnan and Constance he left them, knowing that right now he was needed somewhere else anyway.

\---

The big man all but stormed through the door, walked past him looking neither left nor right and Capaut watched him stalk off with a steady gait. He waited until he had vanished behind the archway before he positioned himself once more leaning against the entry to the infirmary. The soft murmur of a voice rang behind the sturdy wood and he sank on a rickety chair to keep guard. He let his head rest against the wall and smiled as he heard Constance’s voice rise in indignation.

He still couldn’t understand what she was saying but it was pretty clear for the way her voice broke and rose, broke and rose, that d’Artagnan was getting the dressing down of his life. Pity, he wasn’t awake to appreciate it.

He felt a nameless sadness well up inside of him, constricting his throat, as he could clearly hear Constance’s wobbly threat that she would “ _kill you if you don’t fight hard enough_. _You_ s _tupid idiot!”_ The harsh words managed to lift his feelings and Capaut knew, the Gascon wouldn’t dare dying as long as it was Constance who’d take the brunt of his immediate demise. Too much of a Gentleman, that idiot.

\---

The silence was deafening.

Treville’s finger held onto his glass, swirling it in constant circles. Fascinated, he watched the golden liquid create little waves crashing against the smooth walls of the tumbler before shaking himself out of his strained focus when there was a knock on the door.

He threw a quick look at Athos who found his knees to be much more noteworthy as he had for the last hour.

Treville hadn’t made much effort to talk to his second in command when he had furiously ordered him into his office after having to restrain him from killing the physician with his bare hands and leaving a trail of destruction within the compounds of the garrison. Treville didn’t doubt one second that blood would have been drawn if a sword had been within the former comte’s reach.

Words wouldn’t do much good here. The usual flowery phrases would be more the proverbial nails in d’Artagnan’s coffin. Not that Treville already wanted to start thinking about d’Artagnan’s coffin.

No, there were no words to be given, no comfort to be provided.

There was just the ticking of the clock. And said clock was obnoxiously imperturbable.

“In!” Treville bellowed, remembering the knock on the door.

Capaut. Of course. Treville had sent Capaut’s team off to collect a few documents from … ack. He couldn’t even remember, where he had sent them. Something to do with a trade opportunity for horses of high breeding quality that the King had been drooling about for weeks now.

It couldn’t have been more trivial and Treville sighed inwardly.

“You’re back,” he stated unnecessarily. Capaut hesitated, questions and discomfort written all over his face. When he didn’t reply, Athos threw him a glance, nudging him to keep talking.

“We are, Captain.” Capaut swallowed and took a step towards the table to put a thick leather wrapper on the surface. “The documents, Captain. Mission was successful. Nothing remarkable to report.”

The seasoned Musketeer could have told him that they had been attacked by dragons and Treville would have nodded absentmindedly, glad that he didn’t have to rise from his stupor to take care of pressing matters, lacking the energy to even think beyond today’s outcome.

Because he knew the Status Quo couldn’t last much longer. By tomorrow d’Artagnan would round a corner, one way or another. There was only so much a body could endure.

“Thank you, Capaut. You may go.”

The door closed and Athos lowered his head once more, the glass in front of him untouched.

“The boy…”

“Not a boy!” Athos interrupted him gruffly.

“d’Artagnan…”

“With all due respect, Sir. I don’t want to hear it,” Athos retorted in a sharp voice that just didn’t want to harmonize with his slumped poise and Treville dipped his head in acknowledgment. If his role was to be reduced to _being there_ , then be it so. He could do that.

His attention once more wandered to his tumbler and its content, mentally preparing himself to not just losing one man, but a whole team.

Some days, being the Captain sucked.

\---

It had taken almost half an hour, three churches and bypassing three carriage accidents surrounded by lamenting owners and bystanders barricading the narrow streets to find Aramis. It wasn’t one that the marksman usually sought when he needed time to think or pray or whatever it was that he could only do in a church. Porthos never really understood what it was that churches had to offer that couldn’t also be found in the solitude of his own four walls. Churches were cold and dark and creepy. Guilt and melancholy were dripping from the walls like fresh paint. Footsteps reverberated through the hall. The way hushed words could be heard in every corner and even if you were still enough to hear your own heart beating there was a constant murmur in the air, like someone (God?) _was_ listening and trying to talk to you but you never got to understand what it was. Be it advice, accusation or comfort – it didn’t matter. In the end, Porthos knew, everything you did or did not was your own doing – or wrong-doing.

The heavy door leading into St-Germain-l’Auxerroiswas hanging in rusty hinges and made a blood curling screeching sound as he opened it to reveal the interior, which didn’t much differ from any other church that Porthos had been in. The atrium made way for a long nave leading to the choir. Archways to the left and the right separated the rows and rows of seating from the side aisles.

The church was neither as peculiar and pretentious as Notre Dame nor as beautiful or uplifting as Sainte-Chapelle but it did yield a certain beauty in its straightforward structure and sturdy frame.

The occasional penitent was sitting on the uncomfortable looking benches, head bowed and hands clasped tight in his or her lap. Except for the one man sitting in one of the first rows, who had his eyes turned upwards to the large cross overshadowing the whole interior like an admonitory finger.

Porthos sighed with relief and made his way to the front, flinching with every echoing step he made which in his perception caused the whole church to tremble.

He took a seat next to his friend and followed his gaze, waiting, while Aramis ignored him, purposefully looking ahead with just the infinitesimal blink of recognition. Seconds were turning into long minutes, train of thoughts into whole monologues and nervously Porthos began to fidget as his backside started to cramp.

It earned him an annoyed side glance from Aramis and he rolled his eyes.

“These benches should be marked as torture devices,” he hissed. “The Bastille should be provided with those. Them perps will sing like birds.”

He could have sworn the corners of Aramis mouth were twitching. But that might have been his imagination. Or just a tickle of facial hair.

“How did you find me?”

“By searchin’ for ya.”

Someone shushed them from behind and they returned to their silent contemplation. Which Porthos was really bad at. It took only one of Aramis’ _Lord’s Prayers_  before he wheezed impetuously.

“What’yar doing ‘ere?”

Aramis scoffed. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Looks like ‘iding ta me.”

“I’m not…” Aramis hissed and lowered his voice quickly. “I’m not hiding. I’m praying.”

Porthos arched his eyebrows. “And ya think that’s going ta ‘elp anyone?”

“It helps me.” Aramis replied with a heavy sigh. “At least it used to. _You’re_ not helping.”

“Not doing anything ‘ere.” Porthos put up his in a rebutting gesture. “Just waiting for you to be done praying.”

Aramis looked at him blankly. “One’s never _done_ praying. Praying isn’t …a chore. It’s not doing your laundry until all is clean.”

“That ‘splains a lot,” Porthos smirked. “as I’m doin’ neither.”

Aramis pulled a grimace but Porthos could see the humor show through.

“Look, I’m-” … “I wanted to-” They both began at the same time.

“ _Messieurs!_ ” A loud voice rattled indignantly and both men ducked their heads.

“Churches aren’t made for talkin’,” Porthos stated, dismissing all effort to lower his voice.

Aramis threw him a glance that was probably supposed to deliver a rebuke but instead it quickly contorted into a pained expression.

“Sometimes that’s the whole point, Porthos.” Aramis crossed himself, leaning back and turned his attention to his hands. “Who’s with d’Artagnan?”

“Constance,” said Porthos, adding a lopsided smile to the answer. “Probably give him a ‘ard time for all the mess ‘e’s in.”

“He’ll never wake up if her wrath is the only thing awaiting him,” Aramis huffed but he, too, managed a little smile.

“Look, Aramis,” Porthos eventually pointed out, voice loud and not allowing any disruption. “If it takes God to listen to what I have ta say...”

“And everyone else in this church, but never mind us,” someone from behind them mumbled crossly and the two Musketeers turned in their seats, shushing him simultaneously with a vexed “Shut up!”

“I’m sorry I yelled at ya down in the tunnels. I didn’t mean it like tha’.”

“We’ve had that talk already,” Aramis chipped in wearily.

“Yea – no. I know. But I can see ‘ow much ya blame yourself for what ‘appened. Even worse tha’ Athos and -  seriously - this is nonsense. Knowledge doesn’t make ya liable for whatever ‘appens to d’Artagnan. The pup is strong and ‘e will fight the odds. And that’s what _I_ know.”

“I just… there’s nothing I can do except praying… it gives me something to put my faith in.”

“I don’ trus’ in God, Aramis! ‘e tends ta make decisions I ‘aven’t consented to,” Porthos interrupted slightly bitter. “I trust in you and Athos and d’Artagnan. I trust in us.”

Aramis looked around, as if trying to make out whether someone was actively listening on their little talk but they were alone, the others having left in favor of reclusion somewhere else.

“Profanity in a church, my friend,” he hissed, but his eyes twinkled with mirth. “I’m going to get kicked out here as well if you don’t guard your tongue.”

“As well? Ya got kicked out of a church? When? Where?”

“ Long story.”

“Is there a woman involved?” Porthos grinned cheekily and he got rewarded with a grin.

“Three, actually."

Porthos laughed, loud. A belly-heavy roar that ruptured like an avalanche of boulders and Aramis gave in with a few self-consciously snorted puffs.

Their high spirits ebbed away and all that was left was the dread digging holes in their stomachs. Without having to share another word they stood and meandered through the narrow benches towards the side aisle, where two monks crossed their path, glaring at them. They left the church through a smaller door at the side, leading them outdoors into a narrow alley where it smelled of fresh baked bread and horse dung. Between the rooftops over their heads a bright blue winter sky was visible and the fresh air cleared their heads. Their steps and their hearts lighter the closer they got to the garrison.

\----

The moroseness of his mind was starting to feel like an old, undesirable acquaintance and lethargy and indifference were slowly taking over as he couldn’t even remember what it was exactly what had pushed him over the edge.

Was it the fact that the doctor had advised for a priest to be called or the blood-letting – which in his mind was just pure torture on top of everything? Aramis seemed to have concluded likewise and the result was a match of shouted accusations towards… he couldn’t even remember. At one point, he’d probably have to apologize to pretty much everyone present.

But right now, Athos had no intention to give in to the world expecting him to function.

Torn between anger and gratefulness he risked a look at Treville sitting opposite of the table, deep in his own thoughts while staring at his glass. Gratefulness won.

The captain wore his responsibility with pride and transcendence and Athos’ anger dissipated at the sight the man was offering, sitting upright in his chair and his thoughts miles and miles away, his face a mask of integrity and composure. Where Athos was a rock, Treville was their mountain. Nothing could break that man and with a pang of guilt, Athos realized that for Treville d’Artagnan wouldn’t be the first loss he’d suffer in his duty to France and monarchy. Probably not even the second or third. And by God it would not be the last. And yet, he endured fate’s slaps in his face and kept going, his motivation his sense of duty and his responsibility towards his Musketeers.

Athos’ stomach cramped and he tried to remember when he’d last eaten. It must have been the day before that. No wonder the room was starting to sway around him.

He swallowed and sat a little straighter, ignoring the pinch in his healing side. The small movement didn’t escape Treville and their eyes met.

“Captain, I feel the need to apolo…”

“With all due respect, Athos,” Treville interrupted him brusquely but his eyes softening. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The older man took the glass and swallowed the remaining content, glass meeting wood with a grounding thump and his eyes swiveling back to Athos. “Go!”

Athos felt his lips tremble almost involuntarily then widening into a miniscule smile, the small surge of recognition fueling him more than any other substance possibly could. He nodded, heaved himself out of his chair as if having aged three decades in the span of a few hours and left the office.

\---

Madame Bonacieux had stopped yelling at some point and silence had settled behind the closed door. Capaut had knocked, stuck his head through the door. His gaze fell on the young man’s chest rising and falling in steady dependability while she had taken position near the window with her back to him.

He had asked her if she needed anything but she did not respond, either ignoring him in favor of her not wanting to be seen crying or because she just plain did not hear him, lost in her own pain. Reluctantly, Capaut retreated to his look-out where he could watch the courtyard.

The training was still in full swing, the area bustling with musketeers with yelled profanities and laughter even though it all felt constructed and forced. A poor reflection of normalcy but familiar enough to lull him into a sense of peace until Athos eventually appeared on the top of the stair. The swordsman let his gaze roam over the training in a similar fashion to the way Treville usually did. Until his eyes fell on two more figures that had appeared under the archway, as if listening to an internal clock that only the three could hear. They even started moving in sync, their paths meeting at the foot of the stairs where they proceeded in tandem towards Capaut’s position at the entrance of the infirmary. Uttering with one voice “No priest!” as they passed him by.

When the doors closed behind them Capaut felt his heart unclench and a soft smile fleetingly cross his lips. Things had begun to right itself and he could concentrate on showing Gaëtan how NOT to throw a knife unless he wanted his foot to be skewered to the floor, all the while making sure that no priest would even come close to the infirmary.

\---

The day slowly trickled into the afternoon, the courtyard soon lying in deep shadows lowering the temperature drastically as heavy clouds rolled in promising snow. When the first snowflake touched the frosted over window pane they lit the room with candles – more than strictly necessary but they felt the need to chase off as many shadows as possible - and gathered around d’Artagnan, seeking the closeness like moths a light. Lethargy settled within the four walls and the shuffling of sporadic feet on the floor, the rustling of Constance’s dress and the crackling of the small fire the only sounds. d’Artagnan’s labored breathing had turned into a tiny whisper of air between his opened lips only audible when they lowered close to his face.

Capaut had arranged for some food, which lay mostly discarded on a table. Only Porthos kept nibbling on a piece of bread that just would not grow smaller.

It was already deep into night – midnight heralding itself with twelve distant chimes – when Constance leaned closer to d’Artagnan, distractedly nuzzling his hair and kissing his forehead.

“I think… no, I’m sure his fever has come down,” she announced quietly, her fingers resting against d’Artagnan’s forehead and causing Porthos and Athos to raise their heads in guarded hope.

Aramis looked at his three friends, violently ignoring the little voice in his head telling him how it _probably_ would end. Before death set in, there was sometimes a short period of drastic improvement before the body shut down, the organs ceasing their functions one by one. Sometimes, patients woke up almost lucid, asking for something to eat or drink or asking for their loved ones. Their eyes would be clear and their speech would be vibrant and crisp. A miracle. And then the tides would turn, inexorable. It would be quickly, peacefully. No dramatic battle, not even a word of goodbye. Just the clandestine untangling of body and spirit between one breath and the next.

With a pang he realized that where there once had been faith and hope a bitterness had nested in his judgment. Where once had been confidence doubt and pessimism had spread and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it lest he completely lost himself in that vicious circle. 

In the end, Aramis didn’t have it in his heart to tell his friends about his misgivings because contrary to his feelings, experience had taught him that where the Inseparables were concerned, experience didn’t count.

So he didn’t say anything but stepped closer and checked the young man’s temperature himself. Constance was right, the fever had definitely broken but his pallor was still ashen. There was no movement behind the eyelids and only a sluggish reaction to the light when he slid them open to examine the pupils. He slipped his fingers between d’Artagnan’s and squeezed, almost forcefully so to encourage a reaction but there was none.

“d’Artagnan? Can you hear us?” He murmured, his mouth close to his young friend’s ear. “We’re here. Come back to us.”

“As if the little whelp ever listens,” Porthos snorted.

From the corner of his eyes he could see Athos flinch at Porthos’ words followed by a somber “Don’t call him that. He might kick your ass, wounded leg notwithstanding.”

“I’d like to see that…” Porthos joked and sobered quickly.

“My dear Porthos,“ Aramis added meaningfully. “We all would like to see that,”

Midnight sneaked off, leaving the three men and one woman restlessly wandering the room and talking quietly, dozing in between and never leaving their eyes of d’Artagnan until their collective weariness lulled them into exhausted sleep in the wee morning hours.

\---

It was Athos who startled awake first.

Within the stables, the horses were fidgeting, impatiently waiting to be fed and tended to as the stable boys shuffled sleepily across the courtyard, cursing the snow that had fallen and which they no doubt would have to shovel before the sun had risen.

Groggily rubbing the bridge of his nose Athos looked around, his brain only slowly picking up where it had left him before he had dozed off.

Suddenly wide awake, he sat up in the chair, taking in his sleeping companions. Constance and Aramis leaning against each other with her head on his shoulder. Porthos, the piece of bread still in his hand, sitting on the floor, back resting against d’Artagnan’s table.

d’Artagnan had not moved an inch and there was a moment of shock when Athos couldn’t detect whether he was breathing or not. Until d’Artagnan’s head rolled to the side and his eyes – dark and hollow in sunken sockets – blinked repeatedly.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos whispered nonplussed. “You’re awake.”

The young man tried to wet his parched lips before answering “Contrary to everyone else, it seems.” The voice more a croak than actual words. “Wha’ happ’n’d?”

Quietly, Athos got up and moved closer, his hand finding the younger man’s arm. The skin felt warm, not hot. d’Artagnan’s eyes glistened not with a fever but with confusion and fatigue.

“You woke.” Athos couldn’t help the way his voice shook slightly and he quickly wiped his eyes, removing the traitorous wetness that threatened to fall.

“’course I did,” d’Artagnan smiled sheepishly, his eyes growing smaller.

“Don’t sleep!” Athos ordered quietly, becoming aware of movement behind him. A moment later, Aramis appeared at his side, going through the same procedures as before. Hand to the forehead, pupil’s reaction and one look at the wound. The medic, usually vibrant and eloquent when busying himself with a patient did not speak which bothered Athos more than the way d’Artagnan’s eyes kept falling shut.

“What’s going on?” A sleepy voice from where Porthos was still sprawled on the floor on the foot of the table. The large man rose and his face broke into a large grin in answer to d’Artagnan’s unfocussed gaze.

“You will drink first, then you can rest, understood?” Athos instructed again and tried to read the medic’s expression but Aramis face never lost its stony concentration.

D’Artagnan murmured his understanding, his eyes following each of Aramis’ movements und the Spaniard finally met his gaze.

“You really scared us,” Aramis said, a crooked smile slowly spreading on his face. “Do not ever do that again!”

“S’rry.”

Athos shook his head, groaning faintly. “Don’t be. Just get better!”

“Do my best,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “Gottado some ass-kickin’. Wounded leg notwithstanding.” It took a while for it to sink in but it was Porthos who broke the stunned atmosphere as his chuckles finally woke Constance.

Ruefully, they suffered through her half-hearted rant of not having been woken before they finally managed to get some more water into the boy, who fell asleep in between two sips, water trickling from his mouth over his stubbled chin, which Athos wiped away with his thumb. A wave of peace washed over him, like a warming bonfire from his insides and for the first time in days – weeks even – he could breathe easily as the boy’s health continued to improve hour by hour.

d'Artagnan slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling now with revived energy and once the evening crept in, he woke up again asking for water - and his breeches.

Athos’ heart was soaring in delight despite feeling vulnerable given the overwhelming rush of relief and gratitude towards whoever was watching over the boy, who – one day – would be the death of him.

 


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd and not mine. Thanks, by the way.

The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.

-  
J. M. Barrie - Peter Pan

_sssccinksssccinksssccink_

The whetstone steadily sliced along the dagger. Motion and sound an almost meditative combination and Aramis was undecided whether he was being annoyed or soothed by it. He endured his mixed feelings for another five minutes before he suddenly spat. "Please, Athos. If you sharpen it any longer there won't be any more blade left."

_sssccinksssccinksssccink_

Athos continued, unimpressed. He threw him an indifferent glance, one eyebrow raised in a questioning manner, which Aramis answered with a bored shrug. "It's annoying."

"Why don't you train with Porthos?"

"He's busy."

Looking ahead they watched the spectacle of Porthos trying to teach Gaëtan how to fell an opponent by using low balance points. Tilting his head to the side, Aramis grinned and even Athos couldn't hide his amusement. It was like watching a sparrow trying to take on a bear.

Athos concentration turned to the entrance of the infirmary where the door opened and d'Artagnan appeared, leaning heavily against the doorframe, waving at something Constance said to him. Even from the distance, Aramis could see him roll his eyes, resulting in another rant of the cloth merchant's wife.

"I believed him lost even while he was breathing," Aramis uttered, his unexpected revelation finally causing Athos to stop his movements. "One would think that a man of faith should be able to practice that streak not just on a higher being but on his fellow men as well."

"Faith does not necessarily equal hope," Athos pointed out, resuming his sharpening. "An unswerving belief in God _and_ in your fellow human is a wonderful trait but also an idealism we can't afford to nurture. Not excludingly so."

"That's because you always see the worst in your counterpart," Aramis snorted even though he knew Athos was right. Having faith didn't mean to believe that bad things would never happen. Faith was the ability to carry any burden of physical or emotional scarring with

"No, it's because we are able to choose the person we want to have faith in."

The drama in front of them got more tempered as d'Artagnan started to disagree with Constance's mother-henning, arms flying and bodies swaying until d'Artagnan faltered, falling against Constance, their noses almost touching. Quickly, they returned to a proper distance, not looking at each other, until d'Artagnan moved back into the infirmary, defeated. Constance following quickly.

Athos growled "He shouldn't be walking around yet, anyhow. Especially not without proper footwear."

_sssccinksssccinksssccink_

"It's not his fault his boots have been ruined. You should do something about that, you know?"

Aramis detected the almost imperceptible increase of strength in Athos' movement but there was no other sign of understanding. "Why do you think I should be the one doing something?"

"Because," Aramis grinned, "I know about the new pair of boots you've ordered at Madame Pince, which – probably by accident – have the same size as d'Artagnan's old ones. Strange coincidence, ai? Especially since they've been delivered at you two days ago."

"The boy shouldn't be walking around yet." Athos merely repeated gruffly.

"That's one way to keep him grounded." Aramis shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, almost missing Athos's smirk.

"Without boots to ground you, it's easier to fly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Famous last words: *ponders* No I feel empty now. Need some time to recharge before the next story, which will probably very Aramis and d'Artagnan heavy (because I can't help it).


End file.
